Aftershock
by Martin D. Pay
Summary: So - just what did happen to Sylia when she stepped off that plane to Germany at the end of BGCrash #3 ?


Excalibur Publications  
  
proudly presents:  
  
'Aftershock'  
  
A BGC fanfic by  
  
Martin D. Pay  
martin.pay@excalibur.ukf.net  
  
Disclaimer: BGC is owned and copyrighted by Artmic and/or Youmex and/or Animeigo and/or ADV Films and or... well, whoever. Please son't sue: I don't have any money...  
  
* * * * *  
  
2034 AD: Bubblegum Crisis  
The Story of Knight Sabers  
  
  
** AFTERSHOCK **  
  
  
* Prologue *  
  
First there was the light, stabbing down from the heavens.  
  
Then the sound, a bone-deep thunder that tore at the ears and nerves of everyone within earshot.  
  
Then the heat, efflux of Hell's blast-furnace.  
  
Devastation fell on the metropolis like the hammer-blow of God.  
  
And as the dust settled amid the raging fires and the screaming started, one man looked up from the destruction to the sky and swore that his family, his countrymen, would not be forgotten.  
  
And more. They would be... avenged.  
  
* * * * *  
  
* Chapter One *  
  
Sylia  
  
Sylia stepped out of the airport terminal straight into a howling blizzard and quickly pulled the collar of her heavy coat closer round her ears. The flight attendant on the aircraft had thoughtfully warned her passengers that it was cold in Berlin, but had neglected to mention either the snow or the driving wind; the icy blast cut like a knife, and Sylia shivered violently after the warmth of the terminal building. White flakes blew into her eyes, almost blinding her; she shielded her face with a gloved hand and peered anxiously through the murk for a taxi. With the perfect vision of hindsight she had already come to regret the uncharacteristic impulse that had led her to spring her visit on Mackie as a surprise. At least if she had told him of her plans, he could have arranged to meet her flight.  
  
Finally she spotted what looked like a taxi rank, away down at the far end of the building. She sighed, picked up her suitcase, and started trudging through the inches-deep snow, wondering how she had managed to find the exit from the building that was farthest from where she needed to be. She found herself wishing unhappily for the civilised amenities of Mega-Tokyo, like travellators and covered taxi ranks. It seemed that the shattering twin blows of the Reunion forty-five years earlier, and then the destruction by Largo of the city's Genom Tower only the previous year, had left the country's economy in a parlous state. 'I know the cheap facilities are why Mackie came here,' she thought despondently, 'but I didn't realise it was *this* bad.*  
  
A couple of minutes walk brought her to the taxi rank. When the door of the lone vehicle present failed to open for her she belatedly remembered that taxis in the West did not have the driver-operated doors of those in her homeland. Fingers already numb despite her heavy gloves, she fumbled for a moment with the handle before prising open the door and clambering inside. Pulling her case in after her she sank gratefully into the seat, thankful for the present simply to be out of the freezing weather.  
  
The driver turned slightly, eyeing her luggage tags with a look that she classed instantly as distaste - the legacy perhaps of the catastrophe that had befallen the city and caused by a weapon regarded by most of the world as Japanese in both origin and control. She quickly collected her thoughts, and took a travel itinerary from her pocket.  
  
"Metropole, Wil... Wilhelmstrasse, bitte." She spoke in accented German, stumbling briefly over the unfamiliar pronunciation, and the driver looked back again with a hard, unsympathetic grimace, a mere parting of the lips.  
  
"Metropole, ja. Tourist?"  
  
"Yes." She leaned back and closed her eyes, not wishing to attempt conversation even had the driver been willing. 'I must be getting old,' she thought wearily. 'I can remember not sleeping for a week straight when I built the first suits...'.  
  
During the drive from the airport Sylia did not open her eyes at all. She had barely slept since the abrupt appearance of the "Illegal Army" in Mega-Tokyo some four weeks before, and little enough for too many weeks in the years before that. She had spent too long in the Net and in combat and too little in sleep, searching for answers to problems that at first she had not fully comprehended; and now battle stress, compounded with the combination of flight-time, time-zone changes and simple travel fatigue had left her utterly exhausted. The brutal accumulation of sleepless nights and too many waking nightmares had left her physically and mentally demoralised; and even after the final defeat and death of Mason/Largo - a scene that replayed itself remorselessly, over and over, through her mind - he continued to trouble her. Not because of what she had done, but because of what she had *almost* done. The sheer power of his personality, augmented by something that even now she did not fully understand but which she assumed was in some way due to the augmentation of his second-generation boomer AI, had almost overwhelmed her, almost made her accept his insane dream; and her dearest friends had nearly died as a result.  
  
Hard on those around her, she was hardest of all on herself; and she had still not forgiven herself for what she still perceived as her betrayal of her friends' trust. Indeed it was largely in an attempt to exorcise the spectres that still tormented her that she had responded to the others' urgings to take a vacation. Mackie's invitation to visit had been well-timed, and Sylia had found herself welcoming the opportunity to see him again. And she also felt once again the stirring of interest in continuing their father's work; Adama had proved that a stable second-generation boomer AI was an achievable objective.  
  
Her unhappy reflections were interrupted by the taxi's arrival at the hotel. She opened bleary eyes as the cab stopped, paid the driver by the simple expedient of allowing him to pull a couple of bills from a selection in her hand, and climbed up the steps to the antiquated revolving doors, nearly slipping on the top step where the snow had been brushed carelessly away to leave a thin sheen of ice on the worn stone flags.  
  
The interior of the building was more pleasant and reassuring than the drab exterior had promised. The carpets were thick, the lighting soft and indirect, the staff smartly uniformed. Sylia started to walk across to the desk, awkwardly unbuttoning her coat with her free hand as the heat in the lobby struck her, then stopped, puzzled. After a moment she realised with a small start what seemed wrong; there was no piped music, the first time in her life that she had encountered a public building without it.  
  
The desk clerk was blond, blue-eyed and intensely serious, so typical of the stereotype movie German that she was forced to smile. She claimed the room reserved by the travel bureau only eighteen hours earlier, signed the register, and followed a bellboy to her room on the fifth floor. She tipped the boy - too much, to judge by his expression and his overly-effusive thanks - locked the door and flopped back on the bed, throwing her coat carelessly over the chair in the corner.  
  
She had arrived.  
  
* * * * *  
  
She woke with a sudden start. A glance at the clock fixed in the bedside cabinet showed her that she had slept for almost two hours. Both amazed and appalled - she could not recall the last time that she had accidentally slept in her street clothes - she forced herself to her feet. There was a small kettle to boil water standing on the cabinet, a selection of 'instant' hot drinks, and a pair of cups and saucers. She filled the kettle and switched it on, and poured two sachets of coffee into a cup. Leaving the kettle to come to the boil she then undressed and went into the shower.  
  
When she came out, swathed in a voluminous towel and feeling at least a little refreshed, the kettle had boiled and switched itself off and was steaming gently. She made the coffee, sipped at it, and grimaced; it was no better than the instant coffee she avoided so fastidiously at home. She finished towelling herself dry between mouthfuls, and also absently ate the small packet of biscuits on the tray; finally, now wrapped in a dry towel, she set about unpacking. Removing her clothes from her suitcase she set aside a business suit to iron and hung the remainder in the bathroom where she hoped the steam from the shower would at least start to cure the wrinkles. She put the travel-stained clothes that she had taken off into a bag for the hotel laundry service.  
  
By mid-afternoon Sylia was ready to leave the hotel on her first foray into the city. She had Mackie's address, and decided to take a taxi directly to the laboratories that he and John Geary were using. Again she briefly regretted the impulse that had led her here so ill-prepared and disorganised, then shrugged slightly. What was done was done; all she could do was to make the best of it. She paused briefly by the hotel coffee-shop on her way out, but then smiled, a mere twitch of her lips. She could wait; as Mackie was now respectably employed she decided to allow him the privilege of buying dinner for his travel-worn older sister.  
  
Hailing a taxi from the rank at the front of the hotel, she took out her notebook and gave the driver the address, which she assumed would be located somewhere in the city's industrial district. She was pleased to see that the snow had finally stopped, although she could also see that the heavy grey clouds held the threat of further falls. The roads were mostly clear; it seemed that snowploughs had been busy, even if all they had done was to push the accumulation into sad grey mounds on the sidewalks.  
  
As the cab headed away from the city centre Sylia watched the passing buildings with a slow resurgence of her habitual curiosity. Some were obviously quite old, but there were also many ruins. Everything she could see showed signs of the destruction wrought by the insane super-boomer only nine months before. The entire city looked shabby and run down; it was clear that Berlin had seen far better days. Everything had an air of world-weariness about it, a lassitude, a feeling almost that the second devastation of the Germany's capital in less than a century had sapped the city's morale to a point from which it might not recover.  
  
She found the prospect depressing. The mostly deserted streets, some of the smaller ones still blocked by the snow, combined with the drab grey buildings and drab grey people (although there were few enough of the latter) unsettled her. She was used to the vibrant, unceasing activity of one of the largest and most dynamic cities in the world, and this dull European backwater weighed uncomfortably on her. She wondered how Mackie endured it.  
  
The taxi eventually pulled up outside a down-at-heel industrial complex. Some of the buildings looked to be in a state of imminent collapse, and Sylia was moved to ask the driver, again in her accented German, if the address was correct. He reassured her that it was indeed the one she had given him and confirmed it again when, uncertain if she might have mispronounced the guttural Teutonic names, she showed him the address written in her notebook. Relieved, she paid him and got out of the vehicle, which promptly sped away in a shower of dirty brown sludge.  
  
Now quite alone, Sylia looked around speculatively. There was a small door in the wall facing her; although she could not make out the words on the grimy sign above it there was no other entrance in sight and she picked her way carefully over to it through the pools of slush.  
  
When she reached the door she saw that the driver had indeed brought her to the correct place. The name was she assumed her brother's idea of a joke - the sign was in English and actually read (she could hardly believe it) 'The Fishy Business'. She sighed; a sense of humour was all very well, but that sort of joke was not likely to impress the investors whom Mackie had said he hoped to interest in his project... Which presumably explained her brother's reticence when she had asked him what he intended to called his fledgling research company. The offices however appeared to be deserted and the door was padlocked. There was clearly no-one in the building.  
  
What to do next? Sylia glanced around, her native caution asserting itself. There was still no-one in sight, and upon closer examination the surrounding buildings were equally as dilapidated as the one by which she was standing. Unable to see any direction signs, she felt a mounting sense of frustration as the absurdity of her plight sank in; 'lost' was a new sensation for her. To make matters worse darkness was now beginning to fall, making the prospect of casual passers-by even more remote.  
  
Finally she picked the direction from which the taxi had come and started walking. She had gone only a few yards, however, when the distinctive sound of a diesel motor attracted her attention. A small panel-van rounded the corner and drew to a halt a few metres into the street; the engine coughed once and died, and two men got out. One was tall and heavy-set, with a stolid unremarkable countenance, while the other was almost as tall but reed-thin and with a quick intelligence in his narrow face.  
  
Unaccountably alarmed Sylia spun round, only to be confronted by a third man - small, with a sneer and a heavy moustache - bearing down on her from the other end of the road.  
  
The three reached her almost simultaneously. The thin man, clearly the leader, spoke urgently in thickly-accented but quite comprehensible Japanese.  
  
"Stingray-san, ja? You will come with us... "  
  
Sylia started, warning bells ringing ever more urgently in her mind. The men confronting her appeared to recognise her, or at least suspect her identity, and she could think of no innocent reason for them to do so. She had been in Germany for only a few hours and there were no grounds that she could identify for any legitimate authority to be interested in her.  
  
The small man reached out to grab her; Sylia stepped backwards and blocked his clutching hand. He lunged at her again: this time she stood her ground, parried, and retaliated with a knife-finger thrust. Hampered by her heavy coat the blow missed his throat, her intended target, but caught him hard on the shoulder, spun him round and dropped him to his knees. He spat out what she took to be a volley of obscenities, and the idle thought flashed through her mind that Priss would have been interested...  
  
The big man moved towards her, and she mentally shook herself; the middle of a fight was no place for extraneous thoughts. She skipped backwards, keeping out of range of his powerful hands and reaching to pull her purse-strap over her shoulder; she could use the heavy bag as a weapon - or at least as a distraction.  
  
In the corner of her eye she saw that the little man had regained his feet and was moving towards her again, and realised with a frisson of horror that he was now holding a knife. She reacted almost by instinct, parried with a swing of the purse in her left hand and snapped a right-handed tiger-claw blow to the bridge of his nose. Bone snapped with a sickening crunch, and her assailant dropped his weapon and fell to the ground. Blood poured from his face and congealed in a gently-steaming pool on the snow beside his head.  
  
She was about to make a dash for the little van when the slippery pavement betrayed her and she fell heavily, gasping as her left knee twisted under her and pain knifed through the joint. Her head slammed onto the pavement; the pain almost blinded her. The leader of the trio meanwhile took a small but efficient-looking handgun from his pocket and aimed it carefully at her.  
  
"Enough, please. We truly mean you no harm, but you *will* come with us."  
  
Sylia paused, trying both to regain her breath and to gauge the strength of his commitment from the expression on his face. She did not like what she saw. Dizzy from the blow to the head, and afraid from the stabbing pain in her knee that she had suffered a potentially disabling injury, she was out of intelligent choices. Gritting her teeth she used the wall behind her for support and climbed carefully to her feet, crossing her arms to conceal a sudden unwelcome trembling in her hands.  
  
The little man, who had recovered his knife, was holding a grimy and now blood-soaked handkerchief to his face. He walked stiffly up to Sylia, breathing heavily, laid his blade against her cheek and twisted it; a bright bead of blood welled out and trickled down her chin. She stared at him, immobile, with icy contempt in her eyes. The thin man snapped an order and the knifeman flushed, lowered the knife and turned away, muttering savagely under his breath.  
  
"Please do not do anything stupid, Miss Stingray. Our instructions are simply to deliver you to our employer. He would prefer you alive, but the... alternative would be acceptable rather than allow you to escape. Get into the van, please. Oh, and please be so good as to give me your purse. You may have it back after it has been searched... "  
  
With no viable alternative, Sylia handed him her purse, staggered painfully over to the vehicle and crawled into the back. The interior smelt strongly of both fish and machine oil and the combination of odours, added to the shock of the assault and the pains in her head and her knee, made her instantly dizzy and nauseous. The big man sat on a packing crate placed against one side, slightly hunched to avoid banging his head on the roof, and watched her with a calm unblinking stare as she took her scarf and tore it in two, wrapping one piece around her knee as a makeshift bandage and using the other to dab at the cut on her face. She was left to lay on a heap of rough sacking and was thereafter ignored, which at least left her time to think - although she quickly recognised that she had too little data to draw upon to form any sensible conclusions.  
  
The leader drove, the little man in the front seat beside him, and Sylia was at least grateful for that. She correctly considered herself an accurate judge of character, and the knifeman's eyes had been uncompromising in their promise of revenge. Injured, she hoped she would not find herself alone and unarmed in his presence; she doubted he would underestimate her a second time.  
  
The van journey lasted for well over three hours by Sylia's reckoning, although she was unable in the near-darkness to check her wrist-watch to make certain. The trip was conducted in total silence, which allowed her to concentrate on not disgracing herself by vomiting from the stench; by the end of the journey, she was numbed almost to the point of insensibility by the day's events.  
  
The trip ended with a short drive up an unpaved road, or some sort of gravelled driveway; when the van drew to a halt and the doors were flung open she saw that the latter was in fact the case. The inrush of fresh air was welcome relief and she managed to take several deep breaths before the big man grabbed the sacking and pulled it - and her - bodily out of the vehicle to land heavily on the frozen ground.  
  
The big man moved to her side and hauled her upright. Her leg protested and she almost cried out; only a stubborn pride prevented her. She almost fell again as her knee threatened to buckle under her; then she suddenly noticed her surroundings and gasped aloud.  
  
The vehicle was parked in front of a palatial country castle of a type that she had hitherto seen only in tourist brochures, and despite her situation she stopped short, awe-struck. During the journey the clouds had rolled back, leaving the scene lit by the almost-full moon. The castle itself was built of a soft pale stone; with the virgin snow all around and a dark and mysterious conifer forest as backdrop the sight was one of ethereal beauty more suited to a traditional fairytale than a brutal kidnapping. The feeling of tranquillity reminded Sylia of some of the large Shinto temples that still survived in her homeland.  
  
She was not given the leisure to further enjoy the sight. Her captors were evidently keen to get inside and escape the bitter chill of the night; the large man grasped her firmly just above the left elbow and propelled her as rapidly as her injury would allow up the great flight of steps that led to a portico and pair of massive double doors in the impressive facade. One door swung open as they approached, and Sylia was unceremoniously half-lifted over the step and into the cavernous building.  
  
Inside all was warmth and light. A massive log fire was blazing in a hearth big enough to accommodate a sizeable tree and a myriad candles set in crystal chandeliers shed their light onto a floor of marble flags each of which had a surface area greater than that of the average Japanese kitchen. The walls were covered in paintings and tapestries, the table at the far end laden with fine china and silverware. The air was redolent with the scents of woodsmoke and beeswax. Sylia simply gaped, her troubles momentarily forgotten; the setting was quite extraordinary. She had never imagined anything remotely like it before.  
  
Standing in the centre of the grand staircase at the rear of the hall was a man - tall, slender, with the easy self-possession and unconsciously arrogant air of old European nobility. Dressed in evening wear several decades out-of-date, he was (like the hotel receptionist from so long before) blond and blue-eyed, and so far as Sylia was immediately able to judge somewhere in his late thirties.  
  
He took a penetrating look at Sylia, then smiled coldly. "Herman, take her up to the Blue Suite." He turned, clearly dismissing them, and went up the stairs, disappearing from view.  
  
The big man took Sylia's arm once again and with a gentle but insistent tug directed her up several flights of stairs and along an open gallery to a small but well-furnished set of rooms.  
  
And locked her in.  
  
* * * * *  
  
As soon as the key was turned Sylia allowed herself to collapse across the bed. After a moment's rest she then shook off her coat and made a hesitant and painful exploration of the suite's facilities, discovering a small bathroom through a door at the far end of the bedroom that opened in turn off the reception room in which she had been deposited.  
  
A fresh stab of pain reminded her, if any reminder were needed, that she had best investigate the injuries to her leg and face. She cautiously untied the makeshift bandage around her knee; gentle probing established that the joint was badly sprained, but not so far as she could tell broken; the injury was bad, but she had suffered worse over the years. She re-bandaged it using - for want of anything better - strips torn off the sheet on the bed. The cut to her face had stopped bleeding; she washed it carefully and with no dressing had to hope that would be sufficient treatment. The lack of interest in her injuries on the part of her captor, coupled with the lack of medical attention, worried her, suggesting that her ultimate fate was of no importance... Eventually exhaustion took over and she fell into a restless and haunted sleep.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The following morning, Sylia was woken from a fitful doze by the sound of a key in the lock of the door. She opened her eyes to see her captor walk casually into the room and round the bed to face her. A hard-faced woman accompanied him; she was carrying Sylia's purse, which she put an the table. The blond man made a small gesture; the woman nodded once and left, closing the door behind her.  
  
"Good morning, Miss Stingray. I am Hugo Von Mecklenburg, the master of this castle - "  
  
"What do you want of me?" Sylia's question, asked in a hard and tightly-controlled voice, interrupted what was clearly a prepared speech. She glared coldly at him, and he raised one eyebrow appraisingly.  
  
"Ten out of ten, Miss Stingray. *Sylia*. Most people would have said 'where am I?' but you obviously are not so... predictable."  
  
Sylia fought to rally her thoughts and schooled her voice to stay calm. "'Where' doesn't matter. And I'll not insult your intelligence by demanding to be released or threatening you with the authorities. 'Why' is all I want to know." She paused and wiped a hand across her face, unbalanced by tension, fatigue and pain; fighting back a sudden wave of dizziness as her knee throbbed viciously. "This is no random kidnapping; both your man in the city, and now you, addressed me by name and *in* *Japanese*. You obviously know exactly who I am."  
  
Her captor smiled thinly. "Very impressive, Sylia. Beauty and intelligence, a rare combination." He paused, studying her closely, and she was suddenly reminded of a specimen on an examination slide.  
  
She took a deep breath and forced herself to regain at least a semblance of relaxation. "I repeat: what do you want of me?"  
  
"I regret that you've become involved in my affairs, but I trust you'll allow I do have my reasons."  
  
"I'm sorry, but the reasoning of a kidnapper doesn't interest me in the slightest."  
  
He sighed. "Hear me out. You may learn something.  
  
"To put it as simply as possible, I consider that the activities of one of your country's biggest industrial concerns - "  
  
"Genom." Sylia muttered the name with unconcealed distaste, and he looked at her with some surprise.  
  
"Indeed. I gather you've had dealings with them."  
  
"Yes." She did not elaborate, and after a moment he continued.  
  
"Genom's activities are an affront to every decent human being on this planet. Boomers are a curse, not the blessing that your homeland apparently believes them, a fact clearly demonstrated by the events of last year. And I cannot forget that ultimately your family is the cause. Your father not only designed the original AI systems but also permitted Genom to purchase them - "  
  
Sylia flashed a frown, muttered, "'Permitted' is hardly the word. My father was murdered for his work." And silently cursed herself; the combination of pain, shock and lack of rest had her babbling information to this total stranger that she had never actually confirmed to even her closest friends. "So what does all this have to do with me?"  
  
He paused, apparently lost in thought. "Of course, I was very pleased at the reverses suffered by Genom in the last few months. The combination of increasing consumer distrust, government probes, media pressure and board-room in-fighting has weakened the company to a point where it seemed likely that the construction of boomers would be halted. Or so I thought.  
  
"Then Genom's tower in Berlin was destroyed, and half the city laid waste, by the actions of a rogue boomer. My entire family *died* on that day, Sylia; and I decided at that moment that there would be no more. 'An eye for an eye', says the Bible, and my wife and children *will* be revenged.  
  
"And then recently I learnt, quite by chance, that the son of Katsuhito Stingray had come to Germany and sought out one of his father's most trusted colleagues from the old days. There could surely be only one explanation, and a few simple enquiries confirmed that I was right. Your brother, and John Geary, were attempting to recommence your father's work on the... what would you call it? A second-generation boomer? And that obscenity I simply will *not* allow."  
  
His face was flushed, and his eyes glittered feverishly. "Your brother went into hiding when I tried to contact him. I suspect I may have scared him - my views on androids and AI systems are quite well known throughout the European Union. My men have been looking for him for the past week without success, and your arrival here has been most providential, to say the least." He chuckled. "As providential as having my men 'stake out' your brother's facility. It was doubly fortunate that the only picture I have of your brother is from a magazine article about *you* and your so-exclusive little shop, and that my team recognised you. Anyway, with you as my guest I'm sure I shall have no trouble in persuading young Mackie to emerge from his bolt-hole."  
  
"Uhh... how... " Sylia's head spun with pain and fatigue, and she fought desperately to keep her now-wandering attention on Von Mecklenburg. Finally, ashen-faced and voice raised barely above a whisper, she asked shakily, "What about Dr. Geary?"  
  
Von Mecklenburg looked at her, face impassive. "He panicked, I'm afraid. It seems he tried to run when he received my message, and his car was later found at the bottom of a ravine in the mountains on the French border. He... did not survive."  
  
"And my brother and I?" Sylia battled to keep her voice steady; she refused to show fear before this insane idealist. She knew however that she had genuine cause to be afraid - alone, friendless, in a foreign country of whose language she spoke only a few words and amongst whose population she stood out as an exotic stranger. With an effort she forced the fear to the back of her mind and concentrated on Von Mecklenburg.  
  
"You will both die. You are the last heirs to Stingray's knowledge - and to his sin. There *will* be no new boomers." He opened the door and stepped through; before Sylia could collect her thoughts further the door closed and the lock snapped shut with leaden finality.  
  
* * * * *  
  
* Chapter Two *  
  
Knight Sabers  
  
"Mackie!" Nene grinned happily at the screen. Sylia had asked her to monitor the Net in her absence, and although the little redhead took the responsibility seriously she found that reviewing the mass of trivia accumulated by Sylia's custom-built 'search and cross-index' program every day an awesomely boring task, even after the filters had reduced the volume needing a human assessment to a reasonable quantity. Particularly as Sylia had made it quite clear that Nene was not permitted to indulge her enthusiasm for extracurricular hacking at Sylia's expense. The incoming call was therefore something of a welcome distraction. "How are things in Germany?"  
  
"Cold!" He grinned back. Nene was his favourite among his sister's colleagues - less distant than Linna, less forbidding than Priss. Nearest his own age, as well; and of course although he was now an expatriate he was still Japanese. She was *cute*.  
  
"We still miss you, you know," continued Nene cheerfully. "Priss is driving Dr. Raven mad with requests to keep fixing her bike, now you're not here... "  
  
"She shouldn't keep red-lining it," laughed Mackie. "I kept telling her - "  
  
" - but she never listens!" finished Nene with a matching grin. "Well, that's Priss for you." She giggled. "Perhaps she'll listen this time if I get her in here!"  
  
"No, no!" Mackie made gestures of fear, and hid his face behind his hands in mock terror. "Anything but that!"  
  
But the laughter seemed forced, and Nene looked at him again. Upon closer examination she realised that he looked tired and drawn, even worried, very unlike his normal happy-go-lucky self.  
  
"Are you okay? Is something wrong?"  
  
"No... Maybe... Is Sylia there? I think I ought to talk to her."  
  
"Sylia? No, of course not. We put her on a 'plane to Germany five days ago... " She tailed off, puzzled. "You haven't seen her?"  
  
"No. If she's come to Germany, this is the first *I've* heard of it. Of course that's typical of Sylia not to let me know!"  
  
"Poor Mackie! She asked us not to tell you, wanted it to be a surprise." She giggled again, stopped suddenly; Mackie was watching her, worry now definitely clouding his face.  
  
"Mackie, what's *wrong*?"  
  
"I'm not sure. Nothing, I hope. I could just be over-reacting. Sometimes it's difficult to keep a perspective on things, over here... "  
  
"Well, Sylia's not here, and you say she's not there. Mind you, I suppose she could be doing some sight-seeing... If you still want to talk to someone, how about me?"  
  
"Yeah. Okay. Hang on, I want to download some data to you."  
  
"Right." Nene quickly punched buttons. "All set."  
  
"Here it comes." There was a short pause, then Nene's console confirmed receipt of the high-speed data transfer.  
  
"Got it."  
  
"Good. Show it to the others, will you? Now I must go - "  
  
"What? What's the hurry? Having trouble paying the 'phone bill?"  
  
"Of course not!" He brushed the suggestion aside with a sudden irritable wave of his hand and reached out as if to terminate the connection.  
  
"Hey, wait! How do we get in touch with you?"  
  
"I don't think you'll be able to," he admitted. "I'll get back to you as soon as I can, although I may only have time for a data-dump. Keep an eye on the Net, huh?"  
  
"Of course. And please, whatever you're up to - be careful." She could not keep a sudden concern from her voice, and he smiled at her.  
  
"I'm *always* careful. See you... "  
  
The screen blanked. Nene leaned back in her chair, lips pursed, then picked up the 'phone. Priss would almost certainly still be in bed (and Nene knew better than to wake her before noon) but Linna would be at work...  
  
* * * * *  
  
That evening the three Knight Sabers gathered in Sylia's study and reviewed the message that Mackie had sent them.  
  
"This Von Mecklenburg sounds like a bloody headcase," said Priss. "I mean, Gods know I don't like boomers, but it's too damned late to get rid of them now. And starting any sort of war with Genom, economic or otherwise, is suicide." She grinned suddenly. "Unless *we're* doing it, of course!"  
  
"Yeah," said Linna. "But Mackie obviously thinks he's serious, and that he could be dangerous. Mackie certainly seems worried... "  
  
"Mackie said he'd be okay," said Nene impatiently. "It's Sylia we ought to be worried about. He said she hadn't been in touch, which is pretty odd - that's why she went out there in the first place!"  
  
Linna put a hand on the younger girl's shoulder. "I think you're worrying too much, Nene. Sylia can look after herself. Anyway, you said it yourself; she's probably sightseeing - after all, she's never been to Germany before. At least, I don't think so. And this certainly wouldn't be the first time she's gone off and not bothered to keep in touch with anyone, you know."  
  
"Linna's right," added Priss. "Now we've finally got Sylia to take a vacation, I for one am *not* going to panic because she's gone!"  
  
Nene rounded on her angrily. "I am *not* panicking! Mackie obviously thinks something's wrong, and so do I. I trust him even if you don't."  
  
"Of course we trust him," said Linna soothingly. "We just think he's... over-reacting, that's all. After all, if Sylia didn't tell him when she was going, how can he decide she's overdue? Remember, she was planning to be away for at least a month."  
  
"I suppose," muttered Nene rebelliously. "Maybe I'm just jumping to conclusions... "  
  
Linna nodded in agreement. "I think so. But look, you're keeping an eye on Sylia's Net, and the way that's set up, you'll get a 'flag' if there's any reference to Sylia or Mackie, won't you?"  
  
"Yes... "  
  
"Well, run some extra searches, check out this Von Mecklenburg from this end. You know better than we do how to program that sort of exercise." She grinned. "And you've been itching for an excuse to *really* work with that thing!"  
  
"Mackie said he'd call again," added Priss. "I'll wait until he does before I get too worried. He'll probably tell us Sylia's arrived and everything's fine." She glanced at Linna. "Like Linna said, she *has* done this before... "  
  
"I don't know," said Nene. "Mackie was worried, I *know* he was."  
  
Priss chuckled. "No mystery there! He's probably got some local girl pregnant - "  
  
"NO!" Nene's vehemence made the others start in surprise; to their amazement she was blushing furiously. "He wouldn't - he's not - " She stopped short, blushing even hotter.  
  
Priss started to laugh. Linna winked at her, a glint of pure mischief in her eye, and hands clasped theatrically to her breast turned to Nene and said, "You're *lovesick*! I can't *stand* it!"  
  
Nene shot them a look that was pure poison. "Sometimes I can hate you *both*... "  
  
* * * * *  
  
** Chapter Three **  
  
Sylia  
  
Captivity, day four. So far Sylia had been treated with distant courtesy, but she was aware that the situation was not likely to last. Von Mecklenburg had barely spoken to her since the day of her arrival, but it was clear that she was only alive because he believed he might have need of a hostage. She kept a low profile, avoiding contact with her captor so far as she was able. She was especially careful to keep well away from the small knifeman; while she felt reasonably confident in her ability to defeat him in a one-on-one fight if it should come to that, she did not wish to put her belief to the test - at least not while carrying an injury to one leg.  
  
She had deliberately made no attempt at escape, but had instead concentrated on establishing the bounds of her captivity. She had been allowed free rein of the interior of the building - with the inflexible but hardly surprising exceptions of Von Mecklenburg's private apartments and the armoury - but her only excursions outdoors, when she demanded access to fresh air, had been in the company of at least two guards. She was allowed to hobble round the building to exercise, leaning (to the guards' amusement) on an ornate stick that she learnt had once belonged to the Emperor Franz-Josef, but not to go farther afield than the ornamental lawns in front of the building. Not that prolonged walks were practicable, given her injury and the depth of snow on the ground.  
  
The staff - if she cared to dignify the assortment of thugs and bully-boys quartered in the dormitories behind the main building with the term - numbered at least thirty. The house itself was run by an elderly butler whom Sylia found fascinating for his skill at side-stepping the issue of her somewhat ambiguous status. The domestic staff under his command comprised two maids (one of whom doubled as her personal warder), two gardeners (who also acted as chauffeurs), and the cook.  
  
Von Mecklenburg himself remained an enigma to her - intelligent, educated and cultured, but with that dangerous streak of fanatical idealism that led him to destroy at least three people's lives - John Geary, his wife and young daughter - without any sign of remorse. So far as she could tell he was attempting to live by some ancient code that she did not try to comprehend. Open fires and candles instead of electric light... He appeared even to have given up the computers and AI systems that the entire world now regarded as essentials of day-to-day life, although there appeared to be an ordinary burglar alarm around the perimeter of the building.  
  
Her first problem was the language barrier. Only Von Mecklenburg himself, and his lieutenant - the man who had masterminded her kidnapping in the city - spoke any Japanese. Quite a number of the others spoke English to some degree but their usage was eccentric and heavily accented; and in any event they demonstrated no interest in talking to their employer's captive. Sign language sufficed for most day-to-day requirements, but there was no-one with whom she could hold a real conversation. She had explored Von Mecklenburg's library at some length, and reluctantly admired the many beautiful, ancient illuminated manuscripts that were housed there, but she was unable to read any of the collection; all the volumes were written in either Latin or Old High German, and in the convoluted Gothic script. A separate section contained more recent works, but again these were all in German.  
  
Denied even the solace of reading, Sylia was in real danger of becoming institutionalised in her captivity, and had enough realisation of her situation remaining to be well aware of the fact. She also knew very well that if she were to attempt an escape she would have to do so very soon, before her physical and mental reflexes became too dulled through her forced inactivity to react properly to danger.  
  
She finally made her move on the following day, when she judged that her leg although still painful was sufficiently recovered to allow her the degree of mobility that she would require. At dinner - a formality upon which Von Mecklenburg insisted - she ate little, and afterwards pleaded a headache and returned to her room. Unable to lock the door from the inside to prevent unwelcome interruptions, she had no choice but to wedge a chair under the doorknob and hope that as on previous evenings no-one would intrude on her privacy.  
  
She ransacked the wardrobe that had been provided for her in a search for suitable clothes, but Von Mecklenburg's concept of appropriate clothing for a female captive concentrated on the exotic rather than the practical - short skirts, cheong-sams slit to the hip, cropped bodices, mostly decorated with chiffon and lace. Examining the collection, Sylia wondered idly to whom the clothing had originally belonged. Von Mecklenburg had surely not had clothes on hand purely on the off-chance that he might capture Mackie Stingray's sister; and the nature and quality of the garments ruled out their being owned by any of the staff. She sighed with frustration; while she would not necessarily have rejected everything in the capacious wardrobes out of hand, had she been allowed to make her own selections, she strongly objected to such... revealing styles being thrust upon her by her gaoler. And there was certainly nothing that was suited to an extended foray into the fierce German winter; her overcoat and boots were taken from her at the end of each exercise session. Intending to steal one of the vans left in the driveway each night, she hoped the vehicle's heater would be efficient.  
  
After dressing against the cold to the best of her ability, she sat down on the edge of the bed to wait. She had made a careful study of the household routine, and had concluded that the best time to make her move would be around two o'clock in the morning, when most of the household would be asleep. She had already established over the past two nights that the guard in the little hut by the main gate stayed indoors in the warmth during the small hours. Von Mecklenburg had invariably retired by that time, as had the majority of his men, although even at that hour she could sometimes still hear the muffled echo of shots from the small shooting range in the old coach-house at the rear of the castle.  
  
Two o'clock finally arrived, and she set to work. Using one of her credit cards - not her first choice of tool, but she was always watched too closely at dinner to steal a knife from the table - she prised open the catches on one of the antiquated sash windows and gently slid the pane open.  
  
There was no-one in sight below, and she acted without further delay. Climbing out onto the ledge underneath the window, she edged carefully along towards the rainwater downpipe to the left. The wind had dropped, and there was no snowfall, but the ledge was narrow and slippery and the wall at her back was bitterly cold. Her clothes snagged on the textured stonework and threatened to unbalance her; once she almost slipped and fell. Her heart pounded in her breast and the night air rasped like shards of ice in her throat; she had to stand perfectly still for a long moment while she regained her equilibrium.  
  
Fortunately the observations she had made over the past days, and the calculations based upon them, were all accurate. She reached the downpipe without further incident, and quickly shinned down to stand by the main portico.  
  
She grunted in discomfort as her abused knee reacted with a sharp spurt of pain, and limped into the cover offered by an ornamental conifer. She was well aware that she would leave tracks; but with any luck she would be well away before the evidence of her flight was noticed.  
  
Then she almost laughed aloud as the stupidity of the thought hit her; stealing a vehicle rendered any question of incriminating footprints quite irrelevant. Exhaustion, loneliness and separation from her usual haunts had clearly had a disastrous effect on her cogitative ability.  
  
The little van was parked in its usual place in the driveway. It was not locked; an oversight for which Sylia was thankful, as she had misjudged the effects on her hands of both the intense cold, and also of hanging from the building's pipework. Her fingers were now so numb that she was no longer certain of her ability to have picked the vehicle's locks. She slid the door open and clambered inside, and saw immediately that her luck did not extend to finding the keys in the ignition. She put her icy, cold-burned fingers around the shroud covering the steering column and pulled. The stubborn plastic failed to yield and her fingers slid off; hastily she blew on them and tried again. This time she was rewarded by the soft popping of plastic rivets, and the casing came away in her hands; she tossed it onto the snow outside and crouched down to examine the wiring as best she could in the moonlight.  
  
While she was tracing the wires she needed to disconnect in order to by-pass the ignition circuit, the door of the sentry post adjacent to the castle gates opened. She heard the sound and became still, a shadow hiding in the darkness, only to realise that footsteps were approaching. She crouched as low as she could, praying to all the deities that she recall that he would not notice her footprints; and after a long moment of nerve-jangling tension was relieved when she heard the footsteps recede once again.   
  
She risked pushing her head up far enough to take a look, and saw the guard stretching and yawning as he returned to his guard-hut. When he had had almost reached his post again she felt safe enough to resume her examination of the van's electrical system. In another couple of seconds she had found the correct wires and pulled them free from their terminals; about to touch them together, however, she became suddenly aware that the guard was looking back towards the van.  
  
The man shouted and pointed, and Sylia realised with horror that her incriminating footprints in the snow had been spotted in the light spilling from the open door. The guard broke into a clumsy run; Sylia touched the wires together.  
  
Nothing.  
  
She tried again, and then realised with mounting despair that the diesel engine was too cold to start immediately. She could do nothing but hold the wires and pray.  
  
Just as the engine finally began to splutter into life the guard reached the van and wrenched the door open. Sylia kicked out in desperation while still trying to hold the precious wires together, but the cold had blunted her reflexes and stolen her strength. The man grabbed her leg and pulled, hard; she slid gracelessly out of the vehicle and onto the snowy ground, catching her head on the sill as she fell. The guard kicked her solidly in the stomach for good measure and she doubled up, retching. He was joined in moments by a colleague and together they grabbed her arms and dragged her limply back into the castle, where they simply dropped her to lie - cold, bleeding from a cut to the head and barely conscious - in a pool of slush and icy water in the centre of the great hall. The last sight she saw before passing out was Von Mecklenburg, face a furious mask, striding down the stairs in his night-clothes...  
  
* * * * *  
  
* Chapter Four *  
  
Knight Sabers  
  
Beep!  
  
"At last!" Priss scowled at the monitor. She had reluctantly been sharing the job with Linna and Nene of standing watch over the Net since Mackie's first call. Never able to cultivate Nene's patience with such tasks, the tedium bored her to the point of rebellion; the incoming call was welcome relief.  
  
She switched the system on and paged the others. The screen flickered, and she pounded her fist hard on the monitor; the image cleared, and her scowl became a faint lopsided grin as Mackie's face appeared.  
  
"Hi, Mackie!"  
  
"Hello, Priss." He leaned forward, giving the curious impression that he was trying to peer beyond the confines of the screen. "On your own?"  
  
She snorted. "Not likely! Nene doesn't really trust me to look after this thing by myself - " She ducked slightly, although the thrown cushion sailed several feet above her head. "Hah! You'll never be any good if you don't hit what you aim at, Nene."  
  
"Very funny." Nene walked into the camera's field of vision, followed by Linna, and bent down to bring her head into view. "What's the latest, Mackie?"  
  
"Bad, I'm afraid. About as bad as it could be." He looked troubled, and from shadows under his eyes and his general air of fatigue it was clear that he had not slept well for some time. He drew a deep unhappy breath. "It looks like Von Mecklenburg *has* kidnapped Sylia."  
  
"Shit!" Priss slammed her hands down on the console, making the others jump.  
  
"Shut up, Priss. Why, Mackie? Has he actually been in contact?"  
  
Mackie gave a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, if you can call it that. There was a *very* carefully worded advert in the Berlin Times yesterday. I wouldn't have made the connection at all if you hadn't told me that Sylia was in Germany. Listen... " He unfolded a small piece of newsprint.  
  
"'Would the party expecting a consignment of live fish from Japan contact Box 4034 at the Berlin Times in order to avoid spoilage of the package.'"  
  
"Needless to say I haven't tried to contact the paper, but it looks pretty clear to me... "  
  
"What about the Police?" asked Linna.  
  
"Forget that," he replied grimly. "Von Mecklenburg's untouchable. His father was Minister for the Interior - "  
  
"Was?" said Priss sharply. "Any scandal there that we could use?"  
  
"Nope. His father died when Largo took out the Tower. He's a real hero since Largo, always going on about foreign business ethics, foreign warmongers, giving the world back to humanity; that sort of thing. Without *real* solid proof we'd be laughed out of every police office in the country."  
  
"Do you have *any* ideas?" Linna sat tense and white-faced, hands clenched anxiously.  
  
"Only that I wish you were all out here with me at the moment," he admitted. "I could use a few friends right now."  
  
"Easy to say," said Priss. "But if you want more than just moral support we'll need the suits, and we can hardly get on a JAL flight wearing them."  
  
"What about the Knightwing?" asked Linna, looking up hopefully.  
  
"No good, I'm afraid," he replied. "Even if one of you could pilot her - and you can't - she's strictly good for local range only."  
  
"So what *do* we do?" asked Priss softly into the depressed silence that followed.  
  
"I have an idea," said Nene quietly, "but you're not going to like it."  
  
"Let's hear it before we judge," said Linna.  
  
"The ADPolice have a couple of ex-military long-range transports. And Leon McNicol owes us a favour, after Largo - "  
  
"Are you bloody crazy?" yelled Priss, leaping up from her seat. "He's a damn' *cop*!"  
  
Nene flinched slightly at the sudden anger in the older girl's face, but pressed on. "Priss, *think*! We need a private flight, and that means outside help. We *can't* go this one alone." She looked round wildly, eyes wide with distress. "Mackie, what do you say?"  
  
"I don't like it," he admitted. "But I can't... " He trailed off, then gave Priss a sudden speculative look. "Priss!"  
  
"Yeah? Hey, don't look at me to help with this half-assed idea!"  
  
He shook his head impatiently. "No, no, not that. Look, how do pop stars tour these days - all that sound and light gear and stuff?"  
  
"Huh? Like 'Vision', of course - charter a private 'plane," she replied automatically, then looked sharply at him. "Hey, are you thinking what I *think* you're thinking?"  
  
"I think," replied Mackie with a broad grin, "that it's time for 'Priss and the Replicants' to launch a European tour!"  
  
"Wow! Does that mean I get to be a roadie?"  
  
"Shut up, Nene!" In perfect three-part harmony.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Twelve hours later the team was airborne over the Sea of Japan.  
  
They had been lucky. Priss had intended to make some cautious enquiries around the airport bars, in the hope of finding a pilot willing to be bought. Then Linna had the idea of approaching Reika Chang ("The Hou Bang owes us a favour!") and was rewarded with the name of an American who for the right price could be available with his aircraft as soon as they wanted and who would ask no awkward questions. His reputation seemed well-founded; he did not query their cover story or the contents of the crates loaded into the aircraft's hold. Indeed he barely said a word to anyone once the transaction was concluded.  
  
The fee he demanded for his 'plane and piloting was enormous, and Linna was set to haggle with him until Priss slammed the dancer up against the wall. "Forget it!" she hissed angrily. "This *isn't* negotiable! Just be thankful that old man Chang fixed it so that the guy's willing to go along with us at all... "  
  
"I suppose... "  
  
Still worried about how they could meet the huge sum he quoted for fuel, landing fees and other 'essential expenses' ("Bribes, and his 'cut'", Priss said bluntly. "The Hou Bang 'asked' him to do us a favour, but we still have to pay him.") Linna was only partly reassured by Nene's blithe comment that money was only numbers in a computer network. Although no stranger to the sight of the little hacker's particular brand of techno-magic, she still watched entranced as Nene flipped open her laptop and accessed a satellite feed via the 'plane's commsystem, and finally applauded as Nene carefully arranged for Genom to meet the expedition's costs.  
  
"They *owe* us," said Nene. "Besides, they'll probably never miss it - and even if they do they'll never be able to figure out who took it or where it's gone!"  
  
"You know, I've been meaning to ask you something for a long time," Priss drawled thoughtfully from her seat in the rear of the passenger compartment. "If it's this easy, why do you bother to work?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh!" Nene giggled. "Who do you think has the most secure, the most impenetrable computer datanet in the business?"  
  
"I dunno. The military? Not Genom, apparently."  
  
"The Swiss banks?" put in Linna.  
  
"Nope! The IRS, that's who! *Stealing* big money is easy - but you try spending it when they start auditing your income tax returns... "  
  
Priss burst out laughing at the chagrin in Nene's voice. Between chuckles, Linna managed to gurgle, "The only system that Little Miss Cyberpunk can't hack! The taxman!"  
  
Nene scowled at them for a few seconds, then with great dignity folded the laptop and stood up. "Well, if you've nothing better to do, I have. I'm going down to the hold and run some diagnostics on the suits."  
  
* * * * *  
  
* Chapter Five *  
  
Sylia  
  
When she woke, the first thing that impressed itself on Sylia was the pounding in her head. The second was a sick ache in her gut; the third was the sight of Von Mecklenburg, regarding her with a coldly malevolent gaze. Memory asserted itself in a sudden flash and she struggled to sit up, only to fall back again as the room swooped and spun around her. She tried again, more slowly; sweat stood out on her forehead and she felt her stomach about to rebel. Rather than risk humiliating herself further she allowed herself to go limp again, then realised that Von Mecklenburg was speaking. She closed her eyes and concentrated uneasily on the sounds, which gradually became recognisable words.  
  
"... will not tolerate. I regret the need for this, but you've only brought it on yourself. Be thankful that I may still have a use for you alive."  
  
Sylia opened her eyes again, trying to puzzle out his meaning. She saw Von Mecklenburg cross her field of vision - and then saw the syringe in his hand.  
  
With a flash of terror she realised what he intended. She had a very real fear of narcotics; although recreational pharmaceuticals had been a fact of life for many years, and many of her acquaintances in school (while she had still *been* in school) had happily indulged in their use, she had never resorted to anything but strictly medicinal drugs herself. Her knowledge of human bio-chemistry, together with a certain amount of stubborn pride, had always held her back from such experiments; and latterly in any event the medications she and the other Knight Sabers invariably needed after fighting boomers made any sort of stimulants or hallucinogens especially unwise.  
  
Von Mecklenburg sat on the edge of the bed and continued in a quiet conversational manner; Sylia forced her wavering attention back to him.  
  
"You've only yourself to blame, you know. I obviously can't trust you to stay here, so I'll have to ensure that you're not in a position to attempt to escape again." He looked at her. "You're thinking, 'why not just chain me up?' If I did that, one of my people would have to see to your... needs." He shuddered fastidiously. "It's not necessary.  
  
"This is something a friend of mine obtained from the Police evidence laboratory for me. I don't know exactly what's in it, although I understand that there's a tranquilliser as well as something to make it addictive. Very addictive. But the best thing is that you're 'hooked' after one dose, and that without a daily booster... well, let's just say that the side effects are *very* unpleasant. I'm told that most people die, in that situation. So I suggest you ensure that you don't displease me again. You certainly won't want me to withhold your next dose."  
  
"Damn you," she whispered hoarsely. In shock, concussed and only semi-conscious, she nevertheless attempted to resist. Von Mecklenburg however was not to be denied, swabbing alcohol liberally onto her forearm and jabbing the needle into her vein. She flinched and desperately tried to pull away, but he held her arm in a vice-like grip and pressed the plunger home. Sylia felt a wave of despair wash over her, and then lapsed thankfully back into unconsciousness.  
  
* * * * *  
  
* Chapter Six *  
  
Knight Sabers  
  
"Another hour until we land," said Priss, who had been up to the cockpit to check on their progress. She looked towards the back of the cabin, where Nene had gone to sleep under a pile of blankets. "Now, what were you saying about when we arrive?"  
  
"Only that we can hardly just go blasting our way into Von Mecklenburg's place," replied Linna. "He'll probably kill Sylia straight away. If that's even where she is. And the hardsuits are too conspicuous - we won't have the benefit of Leon McNicol to 'look the other way' for us over here. They'll just call us foreign terrorists, and Germany has a *very* efficient anti-terrorist task-force. Anyway, I don't think any of us want to start shooting up the local police just for doing their job."  
  
"So what do you suggest?" responded Priss angrily. Wound as tight as a coiled spring, she was aware somewhere in the back of her mind that she was in danger of reacting without thinking. During the long flight the combination of forced inactivity and worry for her friends had triggered the bad memories; Sylvie, the 33s-boomer dead at her hand; Irene, Linna's friend destroyed without compunction by Genom; Cynthia, the little-girl-boomer who self-destructed when she lost control of her powers. And Adama, the prototype second-generation boomer who had given his life to save her... She blinked back a sudden rush of tears and snarled, "I *can't* lose another friend. I *can't*."  
  
Linna put a gentle hand on her arm. "I have nightmares, too," she said softly. "We *will* rescue Sylia, and Mackie. But we'll have to be very careful. Sylia would plan first, then act, and that's what we must do. We can't just rush in shooting."  
  
"Yeah. Okay. So, you got any bright ideas?" She leaned back and closed her eyes as if to blot out the storm of negative emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.  
  
"Actually I have," admitted Linna. "We don't know where Sylia is in this castle, or even if she's there at all, so we'll have to do some quiet exploring, without the suits." She chuckled. "We'll have to make like ninjas, and that means just you and me. We can take care of ourselves without the hardware, but Nene's not - "  
  
"Not *what*?" interrupted Nene crossly. She had woken up just in time to catch the end of the discussion, and clearly did not care for the drift of her friends' conversation.  
  
"Let's be honest, Nene," said Linna carefully. "You're not at your best when it comes to the purely physical stuff. And I think we'll need you suited up; you're the one with all the built-in communication and ECM gear, and you're the only one who knows how to use it. And if we do hit something we can't handle, we'll need someone to get us out of it." She grinned. "A sort of last resort, if style and cunning fail."  
  
"I hope we don't need the 'last resort'," muttered Priss.  
  
"*What*?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing... "  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Gods, but the weather's filthy out there!" Priss turned in her seat and looked out of the aircraft window with disgust. They were on final approach into Berlin's Templehof Airport, although there was no sign of the runway lights - or indeed any other indication of life - visible through the darkness and the snow that was sheeting past the window.  
  
"The weather's a bonus," replied Linna, also peering out into the dark. "We can just disappear in this. No-one will ever know we were here."  
  
"I guess." Priss shuddered theatrically. "I *hate* snow. But what about our friend up there?" She jabbed a thumb towards the cockpit. "Don't the risks bother him at all? What we're planning here could put us on their 'most wanted' list, and he'll be an accessory... "  
  
Linna grinned. "Only if we're caught! Actually he seems to be enjoying himself. I think he sees himself as the last great hero, coming to the rescue of damsels in distress." She chuckled. "Either that, or he just wants the rest of his money!" She paused. "Of course, I doubt he wants to risk offending the Hou Bang, either..."  
  
"I hope you're right about - "  
  
"Priss! Linna! I've got Mackie!" Nene's excited voice cut across the conversation, and the others twisted round to face her. "He's got a truck in the lorry park, just across the service road from the freight terminal. If I suit up, we can use this blizzard as cover to get out of the airport." She listened a little longer, face intent, then took off her headset and looked up. "It's a three-and-a-half hour drive to Von Mecklenburg's castle." She giggled. "A castle! Anyway, he's not certain that's where Sylia's being held, but he thinks it's our best bet. He says we should be able to get there by 1.00 a.m. local time." She stifled a yawn. "Jeez, I need some sleep."  
  
Priss looked at her without sympathy. "We all do. We'll get some on the way home."  
  
Further talk was halted by the screech and rumble of the tyres on the runway and the banshee howl of the engines as they laboured in reverse thrust to halt the aircraft on the snow-slick tarmac. As soon as the 'plane came to a halt at the end of its run Linna threw off her seat-belt and started towards the hold. The others were only a few steps behind her, and by the time the aircraft swung onto the taxiway the trio had opened the packing crates containing Nene's hardsuit and other essential equipment. It took only a few moments for Nene to don skintights and armour, then they went to the small personnel hatch in the aircraft's side. Priss hauled on the locking handle and the door swung open, admitting a blast of frozen air. Nene wrapped an arm round each of the others; the Knight Sabers leapt into the night and vanished.  
  
"Follow me!" Nene made a rapid scan of the airfield and located Mackie's homing signal at once. The snow was still falling heavily, and the three linked hands to avoid becoming separated. Nene led them across the airfield, her suit's ECM systems working at full power to prevent their being spotted on ground radar. They evaded an outward-bound aircraft on the adjacent runway, and when they leapt the perimeter fence Nene was able to confirm that so far as she could tell they had gone un-noticed - or at least unremarked.  
  
Mackie's truck when they reached it turned out to be a forty-foot semi-trailer. Mackie himself was standing by the open rear doors, barely visible in the driving snow and the gloom. He beckoned them inside with a powerful flashlight, climbed in behind them and slammed the doors shut.  
  
As soon as Mackie closed the door, Nene raised her suit visor and opened the faceplate. Snow turned slowly to water and trickled down the suit into small puddles on the floor as a space heater in the truck's roof valiantly tried to raise the temperature; the soft clicks and whirrs of the suit servos echoed loudly in the empty space.  
  
Mackie looked from Priss to Linna, finally to Nene. The tableau held for a moment, then the four figures moved as one and met in a confused mutual embrace as Mackie tried to hug all three women at once. There were tears in Nene's eyes, and Linna's were unusually bright.  
  
"Thank you. Thank you for coming." He selected Nene for a second hug, then grimaced. "Here, you'd better get changed!" He indicated several suitcases at the far end of the trailer, in front of a blanket strung crudely across its width. "It's good to see you all again!"  
  
Nene quickly went behind the makeshift curtain and stripped off the hardsuit. She gave a squeak of dismay as the chill hit her and almost dived into heavy lined trousers, shirt and pullover, finishing the ensemble with a huge fleecy overcoat. Finally she thrust her feet into sheepskin boots and pulled heavy mittens onto her hands. "It's *cold*!"  
  
Linna laughed. "And I thought you were half-Cossack!"  
  
Nene giggled, and stuck her head round the edge of the curtain. "At least you remembered my size, Mackie!"  
  
He winked at her. "I have a very good memory. For *some* things!"  
  
"Aaahh!" She blushed, and retreated back behind the curtain.  
  
Mackie turned to Priss, puzzlement now in his eyes. "Only one hardsuit?"   
  
"Too much danger from the airport ground radar, according to Nene. She didn't think that she could shield all three suits, but 'soft tissue' apparently isn't much of a problem... "  
  
"Hmmm... she's probably right. The hardsuits do have a pretty big radar signature, especially at close range - Sylia didn't really build them with 'stealth' operations in mind... "  
  
While Nene finished dressing, Mackie produced an enormous plate of sandwiches and several flasks of coffee. Nene emerged from behind the curtain, grabbed a cup and downed the contents almost in one, coming back for a refill before the others had even started theirs.  
  
"Slow down!" exclaimed Linna. "You'll be sick!"  
  
"Rubbish," replied Nene indistinctly through a mouthful of bierwurst. "I'm hungry! There wasn't any decent food on the 'plane, that's all."  
  
"That's because *you* made it," said Priss pointedly. "We all know why you eat out so much." She grinned maliciously. "What was that grey stuff, anyway? Chicken or fish?"  
  
Nene's face darkened ominously; Mackie forestalled the impending explosion by asking quickly, "How was the trip? And how's your pet pilot?"  
  
"'Fine' to both," replied Linna. "Captain Josephson was very obliging. He's booked a departure slot for 06.30, so we'd better not be late. We told him on no account should he wait for us."  
  
"That's fine. Now... " He opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "I drove out to Von Mecklenburg's place yesterday and took these," he continued, passing round a set of photos. "I couldn't find much on the interior, though. This is all the public library had." He produced a book on the history of Germany's castles and opened it at a bookmark. He had scribbled notes by the original captions and in the margins.  
  
"What does this say?" Linna took the book and squinted at it. "I swear your handwriting's got worse as you get older, Mackie."  
  
"Huh?" He took the book back and peered at it in turn. "Oh, there's a legend about some sort of secret passage, an escape route for the inhabitants. It's supposed to come up outside the walls somewhere, but no-one seems to know if it actually exists any more. Or if it *ever* did, for that matter."  
  
"Where's the dungeon?" asked Nene, raising her face from her cup long enough to mumble the question.  
  
"There isn't one," he replied. "It's not that sort of castle, more a sort of fortified country manor-house. Anyway, by all accounts Von Mecklenburg considers himself a 'gentleman of the old school'. He's more likely to have Sylia installed in the best suite in the place."  
  
Priss scowled blackly. "Gentleman! *Bullshit*."  
  
Linna looked up from the photograph in her hand. "So, what do you reckon, Priss? Over the east wall where the trees will give us cover, up the side of the building to that top-floor balcony, and in through that door... ?"  
  
"I don't see anything better. Do you, Nene?"  
  
"No. But I can blow that power cable - " she pointed at another of the photos " - which should give you a diversion, at least."  
  
"Good idea. You got any night vision goggles hidden away in here, Mackie?"  
  
He grinned. "I thought you'd never ask." He produced three sets of image-intensifier goggles from a box by his side. "It's truly amazing what military surplus you can pick up in this city if you look."  
  
Nene sighed sadly. "I still wish I was going with you."  
  
"We've been through that," said Linna.  
  
"I know, but that doesn't mean I have to like it." She shook her head resignedly, pushed a stray lock of hair back into place. "I guess I'm ready. My suit can use the journey time to recharge, anyway. Blanking us from the airport radar at such close range took a lot out of the power-pack."  
  
"How long?" asked Priss.  
  
"At least an hour, maybe more." She stretched cautiously, looked across at Mackie. "You know, I hate this. I love what the Knight Sabers do, but this isn't the same. It's too... personal, I guess."  
  
"I know what you mean," he replied. "The four of you are a team, and I never really wanted to be on the inside. The Knight Sabers are Sylia's pet project, not mine. It feels all wrong without her running the show."  
  
Linna looked up from the photos. "Don't be so negative. We're going to do this." She picked up her mug. "Any coffee left, Mackie?"  
  
He turned and reached for the thermos. "Yeah, I think so. Here... "   
  
"What's our ETA at the castle, Mackie?" asked Priss, looking up from the pile of photos.  
  
He looked at his wrist-watch, then scrambled to his feet. "Damn! We should get moving. About one-thirty, if we go now. Anyone want to ride up front?"  
  
"Me," said Nene promptly. "I hate it if I can't see where I'm going."  
  
"It's pitch-dark, in the middle of a blizzard," said Priss, poker-faced. "Come off it!"  
  
"You're all welcome," said Mackie tactfully. "There's plenty of room in the cab. And it's got a heater... "  
  
"No, no," said Linna, giving Priss a big pantomime wink. "We'll stay here and go over the photos again."  
  
"Well, if you're sure," replied Mackie cheerfully. "Come on, Nene-chan." He opened the doors and climbed down, then helped Nene to dismount, slamming the doors behind her. After a moment there came the roar of the engine and the truck lurched into motion.  
  
"Peace at last!" said Priss, grinning at Linna. "Pass me that flask, would you?"  
  
"Coming up."  
  
"Did 'Nene-chan' leave us any sandwiches?"  
  
* * * * *  
  
* Chapter Seven *  
  
The Assault  
  
02.00. A brisk and bitterly cold wind gusted across the open farmland surrounding the Von Mecklenburg estate. The team had been delayed on snow-clogged roads, and Mackie was becoming concerned that they would be unable to achieve the scheduled rendezvous with Josephson at the airport. The aircraft could not wait for them; and as three of the team were in Germany illegally, Von Mecklenburg had the potential to create a very unpleasant situation indeed should he connect the forthcoming invasion of his home with the private charter flight that had arrived from Japan the previous evening.  
  
"Too many 'ifs'", muttered Priss to Linna. "I don't like this."  
  
"Ummm. I know what you mean... "  
  
Priss picked up the elderly Smith & Wesson revolver that Mackie had acquired for her and thrust it into the holster fastened at her hip. She and Linna were identically clad in black military-style fatigues and both were wearing military headset comm-units. Priss wound a dark scarf round her hair; both she and Linna had blacked their faces.  
  
Linna slipped a Heckler and Koch automatic into its shoulder holster and fiddled nervously with the straps. "Ready?"  
  
"As I'll ever be." Priss jumped down from the truck, muttering imprecations as she landed in a small snow-filled hollow.  
  
Linna followed her, avoiding the worst of the snow and smothering a chuckle, and helped Priss to scramble free. She then paused to look appraisingly up at the sky; the snow had stopped around midnight and the clouds appeared to be thinning. There was now even a hint of moonlight.  
  
Nene meanwhile finished donning her hardsuit and, without bothering to put on her helmet, followed the others outside. Mackie stood silently in the open doorway, a dark silhouette, breath steaming in the cold, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his parka.  
  
"Any trouble with the perimeter surveillance?" said Linna as Nene activated the hardsuit ECCM systems.  
  
"Hey, this is *me* you're talking to!" Nene grinned; her suit began to hum softly. The tone held, rose in pitch, wavered, fell and rose again to hold on a soft but steady note. "Ha! Got it! Not much of a challenge... And they certainly don't know I'm here... "  
  
"Okay, let's go." Priss beckoned to her; she moved to take up position by the imposing wall of the estate and braced herself. Priss stepped back a couple of paces, then sprinted up, planted a foot firmly in Nene's outstretched hands and with a boost from the hardsuit sailed cleanly over the wall with an elegant somersault and disappeared from sight.  
  
"Down and safe. We were right, Linna; the trees are plenty thick enough to hide us from the house."  
  
"Okay." Linna sprinted up in turn and vaulted the wall in similar fashion, landing a few feet from Priss. "Down and safe, Nene."  
  
"Okay." Nene turned and gave Mackie a quick 'thumbs up'. "I'll blow the power lines in... what, fifteen minutes? That long enough for you?"  
  
"Trees are thicker than we planned on. Better make it twenty." She looked at her watch. "Blow them no earlier than 02.25 - and if you can wait for a cloud across the moon, so much the better."  
  
"Roger that. Good luck!"  
  
Priss beckoned to Linna, and together they started to work their way through the dense forest. The image-intensifier goggles gave everything an eerie green tinge and created unlikely shadows; Priss, used to the impressively accurate visuals provided by her hardsuit's HUD, nearly walked into a tree that she had taken for a thermal reflection before she realised that it was real.  
  
When they reached the edge of the wood, Linna pushed the night-vision goggles up her forehead, pulled a pair of binoculars from her pack and started to scan the house and outbuildings.  
  
"No-one about that I can see," she finally reported. "There doesn't even seem to be anyone on guard."  
  
"Why should there be?" asked Priss. "After all, this is just a private house. Nene took care of the alarms on the outside; I'm more worried about ordinary burglar alarms on the inside."  
  
"I suppose you're right," said Linna doubtfully.   
  
They stepped back into the trees to wait. The night was quiet, the only sound that of the wind keening eerily through the trees. The sky was now clearing fast, the full moon a brilliant orb above them. Linna looked at her watch, then turned to Priss. "It's time. Now, if Nene can kill those floodlights just right... " She turned her attention to the sky; and after only a minute or so - although it seemed much longer - a lone remaining cloud drifted lazily across the moon's face.  
  
And the lights in the castle went out.   
  
"Now!" Linna started to sprint towards the house, Priss hot on her heels. They darted across the open expanse of lawn, a pair of shadows against the snow, floundering occasionally when they encountered deeper drifts, dodging round the ornamental flowerbeds and statuary that showed only as featureless figures in the gloom.  
  
They reached the wall of the house without incident, crouching down in a sheltered nook between a pair of massive stone urns to regain their breath.  
  
After a few moments Linna turned the binoculars on the wall that they intended to climb. "Just like the photos," she whispered. "Here... " She handed the binoculars to Priss, who saw with satisfaction that she and Linna were directly below the balcony that they had chosen as the target of their assault.  
  
"Cover me." Priss took a small collapsible crossbow from her pack. She was pleased that Mackie had been able to find one at such short notice; swift, silent and deadly in the right hands, it was the ideal weapon of the shadow-warrior. She next unwrapped a fine nylon line from around her waist and fastened one end to a bolt fitted with a grappling-iron, then stepped away from the wall to gain a clear shot at her objective.  
  
And then all the lights in the building came back on.  
  
"Shit!" She leapt back into the cover of the urns, heart suddenly pounding fiercely.  
  
"They must have a generator inside," said Linna. "*Damn* the luck."  
  
"Can't be helped now." Priss stepped back out into the open, took two deep breaths to steady her arms, aimed, exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger. The grapple shot into the air, curved over the balustrade, and fell out of sight. Priss gave a cautious tug on the line; it held, skittered free, held again. She gave it a second, firmer, pull; this time it stayed firm.  
  
"Nene!"  
  
"Here. What happened? I pulled down the power lines - "  
  
"Generator inside, we reckon. Listen, can you see anyone?"  
  
"No. I can see the whole of the front, and the east side, and it's all quiet. There was a bit of running around when the lights went out, but that's all. Mackie thinks they put it down to an ordinary power-cut - he says that happens quite often since Largo took out Berlin's Genom Tower."  
  
"Don't get seen," chipped in Linna.  
  
"No problem. I just popped up for a quick look around, then down again."  
  
"Uh-huh." Linna looked at the barely-visible line dangling down the side of the building, then back at Priss. "You or me?"  
  
In answer Priss flexed her arms and grabbed the line. "Cover me." She settled her hands securely round the slender cable and started to walk up the wall. It was hard work, although the special grips in her gloves made the task easier than it would otherwise have been. There were no windows directly below the balcony, the reason why they had chosen the route, and she was able to climb directly to the fourth floor; by the time she scrambled over the railing she was breathing heavily and sweating freely. She sank to her knees to regain her breath, massaging her arms to relieve the ache caused by the unaccustomed exertion. She found herself missing her hardsuit.  
  
"Priss! I'm coming up!" Linna shinned up the rope in rather less time than it had taken her partner, and with somewhat greater ease. Her breathing was unchanged, and Priss spared her a sour glance before turning her attention to the door.  
  
While Linna kept watch, Priss took a small eavesdropper from her pack and fastened it to the glass, plugging the terminal into her headset.  
  
"Anyone home?" Linna unconsciously held her breath.  
  
"Nothing at all." Priss stowed the little device, pulled out a glazier's cutter and started to attack the pane nearest the lock.  
  
"Alarms?"  
  
"Nothing that I can see, and the 'dropper didn't find anything. If there *are* any, it's probably already too late," grunted Priss in reply. As she spoke the cutter completed its work; a spur on the end of the tool pulled the hand-sized circle of glass free, and she caught it and laid it carefully on the ground. Reaching through the hole, she fumbled briefly with the catch; after a few seconds teasing it sprung open and she was able to swing the window wide.  
  
"C'mon, let's get inside. I don't feel safe out here." She stepped carefully over the sill, closely followed by Linna, and closed the window behind her.  
  
They were standing in a long corridor, lined on both sides with plain wooden doors. There was a faint glow of light from a stairwell at the far end. The floor was covered with linoleum, which even in the dim light was obviously old and often-repaired.  
  
Priss jabbed her thumb at Linna, then at the first door on the left, moving meanwhile to the first door to her right. She eased it open and looked inside; the room was small and utilitarian, furnished only with a bed, a small chair, a wardrobe and a wash-stand. The air was musty and the furniture was covered with dust sheets.  
  
She went to the next room; it was the same, as was the next, and the next.  
  
It took less than five minutes to check the entire floor, and the women reached the end of the corridor at the same time. Linna shook her head and whispered, "All empty. Servants' quarters, I'd guess. Times must be hard."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
Linna took the lead as they crept down the staircase. At its foot they were confronted by a new problem; they were now at the top of the Great Hall, which formed a huge rectangular space at the heart of the building. The stairs had brought them to one corner, from which galleries ran away at right-angles along the whole of the interior wall to meet in the opposite corner. There was no concealment, and the only doors were on the far side. All the lamps were lit.  
  
Priss tapped Linna on the shoulder and jerked her thumb back up the stairs. Linna nodded, and they retreated to the top landing.  
  
"I don't like this," growled Priss softly. "There's no damn' cover down there. Anyone could see us from the ground, or from the other floors for that matter."  
  
Linna nodded unhappily. "Yeah, but what choice do we have? We can't just turn back."  
  
"No. I guess we're just going to have to run like hell along that gallery and hope no-one sees us. It *is* nearly three in the morning... "  
  
They descended the stairway again and took a last careful look around. There was no sign of movement except for the gentle flicker of shadows thrown by the fire in the great hearth below. All was silent save for the soft hiss and crackle of the burning logs.  
  
Both took deep breaths and, crouching low, sprinted down the gallery towards the first door at the far end. Their luck held, and they reached their objective unseen. Linna drew her gun as Priss tried the handle; the door opened and they ducked inside, closing the door behind them.  
  
The room they had entered was larger than those they had checked on the upper floor, and was clearly the lounge area of a suite; the intensifier goggles showed an ornate decor more in keeping with the rest of the castle. Priss started to prowl round the room, while Linna moved closer to the window and reported their progress back to Nene and Mackie.  
  
"Psst!" Priss reappeared from the gloom. "Here... " She directed Linna to the far side of the room; there was a door set in the centre of the wall. "There's a bedroom and bathroom at the other end, so I'd say this door leads to the next apartment," she whispered. "It's locked, but if I can open it we can avoid going onto that gallery again. At least for a while."  
  
Linna nodded. "Go for it." She stepped back to allow Priss room to work.  
  
Priss took a set of lockpicks from her pack, the last of the items she had brought from home, and crouched down to fiddle with the elderly lock. After a few seconds it snapped open with a soft click, and Priss stood up with a small satisfied grin. She opened the door; Linna waved her to continue, and she entered the adjoining room.  
  
The suite was clearly a mirror-image of the one she had just left. Equally obvious was the fact that this suite was occupied; the remains of a meal were evident on the table, a pair of women's shoes stood by the door, and several blouses had been flung over the back of a chair. The bedroom door was closed.  
  
Priss raised a finger to her lips, then gestured to the right as she moved to the left; they circled the room in opposite directions and met by the bedroom door. She tried the handle and gave a quick 'thumbs up' when it turned without resistance. Linna drew her pistol; Priss counted silently by raising single fingers consecutively, and on 'three' gently pushed the door wide. Linna dropped to one knee, gun extended before her in a standard two-handed marksman's grip as she swept the weapon across the room.  
  
The shrouded figure in the bed gave a slight moan but did not otherwise stir. Linna went back to listen at the outer door, while Priss stepped silently into the room and circled carefully round the foot of the bed to gain a glimpse of the sleeper's face.  
  
'Sylia!' She almost shouted the name aloud, then reached across to switch on the lamp that stood on the bedside cabinet.  
  
What she saw made her take a sharp fearful breath. Even in sleep Sylia's cheeks were hollowed, her cheekbones standing out in sharp relief, and her skin had a sallow unhealthy look.  
  
Priss reached out and gently shook her friend's shoulder. "Sylia! Wake up - it's me. Priss."  
  
"Whuh... don't!" Sylia's voice rose sharply in a cry of fear, and she shuddered violently and twisted away in an attempt to throw off Priss' hand.  
  
"Sylia... " Priss desperately put a hand over Sylia's mouth to prevent her shouting; after a moment the panicked eyes cleared and she lay still. Priss cautiously removed her hand.  
  
"P - Priss? I'm dreaming... "  
  
Priss' reply was interrupted by the sound of hammering on the outer door of the suite. Simultaneously Linna appeared in the bedroom door, gun still in hand. She saw Sylia, went to the bed and put out a hand to touch the older woman almost as if for reassurance.  
  
"Thank the gods!"  
  
Another heavy blow resounded through the suite, and Linna spun round to face Priss. "They're on to us; we must have tripped an alarm after all. I've wedged the doors as best I can, but that won't keep them out for long."  
  
"Time to get out of here," agreed Priss. "Sylia, can you...?"  
  
"I'll do what I must," she replied shakily, struggling to sit up. "Can you get my clothes?"  
  
With nothing to gain from further attempts at stealth, Linna flipped on the rest of the lights in the suite and set about scooping up Sylia's clothing and then helping her to dress.  
  
Priss, meanwhile, now certain that escape by their original route was out of the question, went to the window and threw open the curtains to survey the area. There was a sudden rattle of small-arms fire from the ground and she ducked hastily; bullets smacked against the stonework and several holes appeared in the glass. "Shit! Now what?"  
  
The answer came in the form of a renewed assault on the outer door; she cursed again, and ran into the lounge. The heavy oak panels were still intact, but to her alarm the hinges were already beginning to show serious signs of strain. Grimly she drew her pistol, went up to the door, and with firm deliberation loosed off two shots into the centre panel. The reports were deafening in the enclosed space, and she flinched at the onslaught on her eardrums. There was also a cry of pain from outside and the sound of a body falling to the floor, which drew a quick wolfish grin to her lips. She flattened herself against the wall in anticipation of retaliatory fire, but all was suddenly silent.  
  
"Linna! You'd better call Nene. I guess we're going to need the 'last resort' after all."  
  
"Yeah." Linna toggled her transceiver. "Nene! You receiving?"  
  
"Roger. What's going on? We heard shots - "  
  
"Later. We've found Sylia, but we're up to our necks in goons. Get in here, quick."  
  
"On my way... "  
  
* * * * *  
  
Down in the truck Nene swung round to Mackie, who was watching her closely, a huge question in his worried eyes.  
  
"Sis?"  
  
"They've found her, but they're in trouble. Pass me my helmet." She almost snatched it from him in her haste and barely waited for the automatic system-checks to finish before slamming open the truck's doors. She leapt from the vehicle and in two bounds had reached the wall; boosted by the suit jets she sailed cleanly over it and hit the ground on the far side at a dead run. Once through the woods she paused briefly to analyse the data in her HUD, then aimed straight for the main entrance to the building.  
  
* * * * *  
  
In the third floor suite the situation was deteriorating rapidly. The door had finally given way, and the three women had had no choice but to retreat to the bedroom. Von Mecklenburg's men had been unable - or simply unwilling, Priss quickly realised - to enter the suite; two bodies lying just outside in the corridor bore ample testimony to the time they had all spent on the hand-gun ranges at 'Survival Shot'.  
  
Linna snapped off another round, then rolled aside to reload as Priss took up position by the door frame. She checked again, but the answer was the same; she was down to her last two clips. She glanced up; Priss had laid her spare speed-loaders against the wall, and there was now only one remaining.  
  
Priss' main concern, lack of ammunition aside, was that Von Mecklenburg would lose patience and resort to more forceful tactics - like a grenade or two - even if it meant damaging his home. She was therefore not surprised when, almost as the thought occurred to her, a nondescript black canister hurtled into the lounge and fetched up against the bedroom door jamb.  
  
"DOWN!" She desperately flung herself to the side, knocking Linna, who had been kneeling beside her, flat on the floor; hoping that Sylia had stayed on the far side of the bed.  
  
For a count of two nothing happened, then the grenade burst with a dull hiss and yellow smoke billowed out. A tendril wormed into the bedroom and over Priss, whose eyes started to burn and weep uncontrollably.  
  
"Shit! Tear-gas! Linna! If I cover you... ?"  
  
"Gotcha." Linna crouched like a sprinter and, as Priss fired several deliberate shots into the open doorway, launched herself at the canister, scooped it up and in a single fluid move threw it back through the door to the suite. She was rewarded with cries of alarm as the gas started to waft across the Great Hall; apparently their opponents had not considered the possible adverse consequences of using gas in a confined space.  
  
"It'll be a bomb next time," said Priss grimly through the wet towel she was mopping over her face. "Where the hell is Nene?"  
  
* * * * *  
  
When Nene reached the main courtyard she was confronted by two men wielding sub-machine guns who had been watching the upper stories of the building. With combat instincts forged in the heat of battle against Genom's boomers she did not pause in her headlong rush but triggered a burst from the mini-chaingun built into the right arm of her suit as she passed. The men jerked at the impacts; bone crunched and blood spattered the snow as they fell in crimson tatters. They did not get up. When she reached the doors she did not slow but hurled herself bodily through them in a shower of smashed timbers and splinters of stone. Four gunmen standing in the centre of the Great Hall were sent reeling by the force of her entrance; the two who got to their feet were driven back to the floor by a bench that she off-handedly tossed at them as she headed for the stairs.  
  
A fifth trooper, standing unnoticed by the table opening a case of ammunition, snatched up his machine pistol and loosed off a desperate volley. Nene, still reacting purely by reflex, triggered a concussion blast that ripped across the floor in a fury of marble fragments and smashed the chairs and refectory table by the hearth into so much matchwood. The blast wave ended in the hearth itself; the stonework groaned and trembled but rode out the impact and the force rebounded into the open space of the Hall. The gunman was hurled backward as though pole-axed, dead before he realised what had hit him, blood streaming from his nose, mouth and ears.  
  
Caught by the blast, burning coals and timbers exploded the length and breadth of the Hall. Fires sprang up as carpets and tapestries caught light and flared, and acrid smoke roiled across the room as the flames licked questioningly at the ancient wooden panels and beams. The remaining men on the ground floor broke and fled; Nene, intent on her friends, let them go.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Priss and Linna listened to the sounds of mounting chaos below with increasing relief; with only a handful of shots left between them, their position was becoming impossible. There were now five motionless bodies outside the suite, and several more of Von Mecklenburg's men had retreated with bullet wounds of varying severity, but both realised that it had become only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.  
  
"Sylia! Get ready - either we're about to be rescued, or we're gonna get creamed," yelled Priss above the din, her voice muffled by the makeshift mask she wore over her nose and mouth. The others were similarly equipped; after the tear-gas, Priss had taken the scarf from her hair, torn it into three and thoroughly wetted the pieces to use as protection in the event of further such assaults. Although none had materialised, the hazard posed by cordite fumes and now smoke from the fires in the Hall made them all grateful for any safeguard they could contrive.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Nene charged straight up the stairs to the first floor. Smoke and tear-gas had rendered any opposition largely ineffective, and only three men remained to confront her. Intent on reaching her friends, she swept two of them over the banister with a casual sweep of her arm; they fell to the floor of the Hall with dull thuds. One screamed as his leg buckled under him at an impossible angle; the other landed on shoulder and neck with a crunch of bone; he shuddered and did not move again.  
  
The third man backed away, muttering, "Boomer," over and over in a soft monotone. Nene checked and looked towards him; he turned and fled into one of the rooms, slamming the door behind him.  
  
*You think I'm a *boomer*? You poor bastard...* She toggled her suit jets, following the data in her HUD towards her friends on the third floor.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Where's Von Mecklenburg? You *must* find him - "  
  
"Sylia, forget him! There's no time. This whole place is going up... " Priss took Sylia's arm and pulled her bodily in the direction of the door. There was chaos outside - bodies lay where they had fallen, and the rising roar of the flames suggested that her prediction was all too accurate. With no-one to combat the fires, the interior of the building was now well ablaze. The heat was rising rapidly, and so was the smoke; Linna was already coughing badly as the makeshift smoke-masks became ineffective.  
  
"Priss, you don't understand... " Sylia drew a deep shaky breath, coughed raspingly, tried to continue. "Von Mecklenburg's drugged me. He told me that without regular injections every day, I could die."  
  
"What?" Linna went white beneath the soot and grime; Priss' lips thinned to a bloodless line, and her normally warm, dark eyes suddenly burned cold as shards of ice.  
  
The sudden hiss of suit jets heralded Nene's arrival. She alighted on the landing, stumbled and almost fell before recovering her balance. "Sylia! You're all right!"  
  
"Have you seen Von Mecklenburg?" Priss shook Nene hard to gain her attention.  
  
"What? No. Come on, let's get out of here. There's no time for revenge - "  
  
"Revenge, nothing! He's drugged Sylia, and we have to find the antidote."  
  
"Shit... "  
  
"Yeah." She looked round, stooped and picked up a pair of semi-automatic rifles from the floor and handed one to Linna. "Take Sylia back to the truck - Nene'll boost you down to the ground. Hmmm... " She switched her headset to 'send'. "Mackie! Bring the truck up to the house - we're coming out, and I don't want to get caught in the open if some of those bastards are still hanging about."  
  
"Roger. On my way."  
  
Priss turned to Nene. "Take them down to the truck, then get back here."  
  
"Okay." Nene crossed to the bedroom window with Linna, put an arm round the dancer's waist and launched herself into space. Linna's added weight made for a fast descent and a heavy landing in the shadow of the portico. Linna gave a quick 'thumbs up'; Nene sprang back up to re-enter the room, and repeated the exercise with Sylia, whom Priss had meanwhile wrapped in a blanket against the piercing cold.  
  
Priss was waiting impatiently by the door when Nene returned for the second time. "Right, come on. We've got some vermin to hunt up."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Mackie gunned the truck's engine, accelerated along the farm track where he had parked and threw the vehicle into a hard turn aimed straight at the closed wrought-iron gates. He fought the wheel as the truck bucked and shuddered over the poor surface, fighting for traction on the icy ground, then braced himself for the impact. The truck ripped through the gates in a scream of tortured metal and thundered up the long drive, finally skidding to a halt hard by what remained of the castle doors. Smoke was billowing out, stained with the red glow of the fires now raging inside.  
  
Two figures appeared from behind the portico. Mackie leapt out, ran back to the trailer and flung open the doors. There was the sudden sound of a shot from somewhere off in the darkness, and a bullet ploughed into the metal by his head; he flinched and ran round to the side facing the building. Sylia, arm thrown over Linna's shoulders, half-ran half-fell across the narrow grass strip, gasping for breath, and Mackie almost knocked both women over as he threw his arms round his sister in a great hug.  
  
"Sis! Thank God!" He turned his head to look at Linna. "Where are Priss and Nene?"  
  
"Still inside. They'll be down in a moment."  
  
Several more shots rang out, the bullets whining around their heads. Linna, who had kept hold of her rifle, snapped off a couple of rounds as Mackie helped Sylia into the truck and continued to provide covering fire as Mackie scrambled back into the cab and threw it into gear. The roar of the flames drowned out the powerful diesel, and the fire's glare washed over the vehicle like a tide of blood.  
  
"Where the devil *are* they?"  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Okay, let's go find the bastard before this place comes down round our ears." Priss went to the edge of the balcony and looked down into the Hall. The far walls were well alight, the paintings, wall-hangings and now even the wood panelling burning fiercely, and she stumbled back from the intense heat, coughing from the smoke. Only Nene's outstretched arm prevented her from falling over.  
  
"Damn. Nene, can you make out anything down there? Somewhere we might find Von Mecklenburg?"  
  
Nene stepped up to the banister in turn, leaned over and turned her scanners onto the lower floors. "The rooms on the east wall are still quite cool," she finally reported. "I don't think the fire's reached them yet. If there's anyone left in here, I guess that's where they'll be."  
  
"Right, let's move." Priss wrapped her arms around Nene's neck, holding hard to the base of the ECM vanes on the back of the hardsuit. "Go!"  
  
Lift jets hissed; burdened by the additional weight the hardsuit rose sluggishly over the balustrade and dropped rapidly towards the lower floors. Away from the protection of the walls and floor the rising heat struck them like a blow, and Priss screwed her eyes shut and tucked her face into her shoulder as best she could. She could feel her hair beginning to burn.  
  
Nene, her suit's cooling and air-filtration systems working at maximum, was more comfortable, but the readings in her HUD were beginning to scare her. The hardsuit was built for short, sharp bouts of combat, not for long-term exposure to high-temperature environments, and several of its systems were dangerously close to overloading. A burning beam fell perilously close; terror-induced sweat broke out on her forehead. She veered sideways and it missed them, but she felt the turbulence of its fiery passage at her back. Unbidden the memory came back to her of the Great Kanto 'Quake of '25, of a burning building in which she had been trapped and where she had nearly burned to death before some neighbours were able to pull her out... She glanced up and saw to her horror that the ravening flames had reached the vaulted ceiling; another rafter fell as she watched, and she guessed that they only had minutes before the whole roof came down.  
  
When they reached the first floor gallery Nene did not land but with a quick, "Hang on!" crashed straight through the nearest door and into the room beyond. The change in temperature was immediately noticeable, as was the lack of smoke, and Priss let go with a gasp of relief; her clothes had started to smoulder, and the exposed skin on the backs of her hands was badly blistered.  
  
Priss looked round. They were standing in an unfurnished anteroom, little more than a passage into the rooms beyond. She beckoned to Nene, who went to the door at the far end and cautiously opened it.  
  
The adjacent room was clearly a workroom, equipped with a pair of ordinary desks and a bank of capacious filing cabinets. Priss went to the first desk and started a rapid search of its drawers and pigeonholes, stuffing all the papers she found into her pack, while Nene went to the first cabinet, forced the lock and pulled the first drawer open.  
  
Then her face fell. "Priss! This is hopeless - There's too much stuff, and I can't read any of it. Oh, *why* couldn't he just have a nice little terminal I could hack... "  
  
"Yeah. Try the other desk. Look for something that looks like drugs or formulas or... aaah!" She broke off suddenly and waved a small case aloft.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Look here!" She opened the case; it contained a syringe and a row of phials with several empty spaces.  
  
"But no notes. It'll be a lot harder to synthesize an antidote without them. And it'll take a lot longer."  
  
"Yeah. We've still got to find Von Mecklenburg. We need to know exactly what he's used."  
  
"Well, let's get moving, then. The fire's starting to come up that passage - we certainly won't be getting out that way." Nene moved to the door in the left-hand wall; it was cool to the touch, and locked. She hurled herself against the panels, bursting them open and crashing through into the next room. Momentarily unbalanced, she tripped over the raised step and fell across the threshold, skidding along the floor on her face.  
  
Priss bit back a hysterical bark of laughter at the sight, then suddenly realised that they were being watched. In the space of a split second she saw first a small figure, and secondly the gun that he was holding. As if in slow motion she saw him squeeze the trigger, saw the spurt of smoke from the muzzle, and desperately hurled herself to one side. Her reflexes saved her life; instead of hitting her in the heart, the bullets ploughed into her shoulder and upper arm, spinning her round and smashing her to the floor. Through a red haze of pain she saw Nene rise to her feet and lunge head-first across the room in a crimson blur, suit jets firing at full power.  
  
Nene careened across the room and struck the man slightly off-centre, her head passing under his left arm. There was a bloody 'crunch' and a bubbling scream as the two figures hit the wall, and her vision was suddenly obscured by a dark tide that ran down the front of her helmet. Puzzled, she scrambled to her feet, shaking the man's arm free from her shoulder; it flopped limply to the ground.  
  
"Shit!" Priss struggled dizzily to her knees, awkwardly cradling her injured arm. "Dammit, Nene, we needed him alive," she continued hoarsely. Without the filtering effect of her hardsuit she had to fight a sudden urge to vomit at the stench of blood and body fluids.  
  
"What?" Nene looked down then gagged audibly when she saw the arm, raggedly severed just below the elbow, laying at her feet. Blood still trickled from the severed stump and was splattered over the walls and floor. And her hardsuit. She forced herself to look at the man's body, and to her horror saw that he was still - just - alive. As she watched, transfixed, unable to turn away, his muscles spasmed once and then relaxed as the light died in his eyes.  
  
She wrenched her gaze away, trying not to think of the sandwiches and coffee that lay suddenly leaden in her stomach, and realised with mounting horror what had happened. The speed and power of the impact had forced the outer edges of the hardsuit's razor-sharp upper ECM vanes deep into the man's chest, caving in his rib cage; while on her other side, the vanes had amputated his lower arm as thoroughly as a surgeon's knife.  
  
Nene convulsively flipped up her visor, despair in the movement, allowing her to see the results of her handiwork without the cushioning of reality afforded by the HUD interface. She was suddenly, horrifyingly aware that in her haste and her fear for Priss she had made a mistake, perhaps a fatal one for Sylia, but 'smash the enemy' had become instinctive in the battles with Genom's boomers. That instinct had surfaced when she entered the combat with Von Mecklenburg's men and had taken her over completely when she saw Priss gunned down. In her mind's eye she suddenly saw the other men that she had killed during her headlong plunge through the building and wanted to scream out her anguish, her horror at what she had done, at what she suddenly felt she had become...  
  
Miserably she forced herself to move, crossing to where Priss, grey-faced, leaned against the wall, and bent down to examine her wounds. Blood was flowing freely from the punctures to drip onto the floor. Numbly she took the cloth that Priss offered and wiped it across her helmet, then flipped her visor shut and activated the HUD deep-scanner. "One bullet's still in your shoulder," she said, voice shaking and tight with fear. "The other one went straight through. How - ?"  
  
"Hurts like bloody hell," gasped Priss through gritted teeth. "You'll have to bandage it, and quick. Blood loss... "  
  
"I know," she replied. "I'm - I'm sorry... " Her voice trembled suddenly, but she eased Priss out of her jersey, tore it in half and used the pieces to make crude bandages and a sling to support the injured arm.  
  
Priss looked closely at the featureless hardsuit, willing herself to see past the reflections in the visor to the face inside, and abruptly realised that although the younger girl was physically unharmed she was by no means unscathed. From being relegated to a support role, Nene had become pivotal to the success of their mission (no - she amended to herself - not just a mission; to saving Sylia's life). The errors that Nene had made in invading the house rather than simply jumping up to the window of Sylia's room, and then in killing the gunman - not to mention the way in which she had done so - had clearly brought her close to breaking point. Priss realised that she tended to forget that Nene for all her experience was still a few months short of her twentieth birthday.  
  
She forced herself to look back at the bloody corpse. "That's not Von Mecklenburg," she said finally. "He's too short, and Von Mecklenburg was blond in the photos." She paused, fighting dizziness, looked round the room. "He was guarding that room... "  
  
"Then let's get this over with," said Nene wearily, her voice little more than a rasping whisper. "The fire's coming this way, and I don't want to get trapped in here."  
  
She forced open the door against some unexpected resistance and saw that it had been hastily wedged shut. Von Mecklenburg was crouching by the far wall, pounding at a panel in the wall. He rose and faced the Knight Sabers as they entered, and his frightened eyes tracked Nene as she stepped carefully across to him.  
  
"Verdamnt boomer," he finally muttered, eyes widening still further as she approached.  
  
"Hey, Priss, do you know that's the second time today someone's told me I'm a boomer?" Nene's tone was light, almost playful, but Priss could hear the stress underlying the surface calm.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yeah." She turned back to Von Mecklenburg, forcing herself to continue acting the role he had assigned her; wreathed in smoke and covered in blood, the hardsuit was clearly an image from his darkest nightmares. She slowly reached out to grasp him by the throat and addressed him in English, a language she had first learnt from her diplomat father. "You understand me? I killed your little man back there, and there are a lot more dead men out there in the fire. You'll tell me what I want to know if you don't want to join them... " She punctuated her words by slamming him none too gently against the wall; he sagged limply in her grasp, ashen-faced, terror in his eyes. Beads of sweat rolled down his face.  
  
"What have you given Sylia? And what's the antidote?"  
  
He looked at her dully, then suddenly burst out laughing, a horrible high-pitched giggle that only stopped when Nene closed her fist slightly. He gasped for air, coughed feebly from the smoke that was filtering rapidly into the room, but said nothing.  
  
"Bastard! *What* *have* *you* *given* *Sylia*?" Nene emphasised the question by raising her arm until Von Mecklenburg hung limply in her grasp, his feet dangling six inches from the floor. He did not move.  
  
Priss staggered across the room, a sudden premonition leaving a cold fear at the pit of her stomach, and pried at Nene's armoured hand. "Shit, Nene. I think you squeezed him too hard - he's dead."  
  
Nene started and dropped Von Mecklenburg; his body slumped to the floor in a crumpled heap. "What? He can't be... I didn't..." Bleak bitter tears trickled unseen down Nene's face behind the concealing helmet as she fell to her knees. "Oh, God, Priss... What... *what* *have* *I* *done*?"   
  
About to reply, though in truth she had no idea what she could say to spare her partner's feelings, Priss was hurled full-length to the floor by an explosion that rocked the building. Wood and plaster rained down, and an ominous fissure started to widen in the wall by the open door. Smoke poured in through both the rapidly-expanding crack and the doorway; in seconds the fumes were so thick that she could not see the far side of the room.  
  
Suddenly reawakened to their situation, Nene saw their peril; but her scanners had found an exit. She grabbed Priss by her uninjured arm and pulled her across to a second door, opposite the one through which they had entered, and kicked it down. Beyond lay a bedroom - and windows to the outside world.  
  
"Come on!" She ran to the nearest window and smashed it; the resulting draught increased the flow of smoke into the room and Priss doubled over, coughing spasms wracking her body.  
  
Nene spun round, scooped Priss up bodily and hurled herself through the window. As she did so another explosion shattered the air, the shockwave battering at her, pounding through the hardsuit like a million thunderclaps. The driving reverberations overloaded the suit's audio system instantly, and she screamed aloud as she felt the knifing pain in her ears. The wall of the castle groaned, sagged and started to fall. Nene hit the ground and started to run, limbs leaden, heart pounding like a triphammer. She spared a backward glance and redoubled her efforts, fear lending her strength as the side of the building rolled out towards them. Stonework rained down on all sides, and she stumbled and nearly fell when most of an ornamental stone gargoyle hit her in the small of the back, but she somehow kept her balance and kept moving...  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Mackie! Move the truck!" Linna saw the windows in the facade of the castle blow out and heard the first explosion as it flung chunks of the upper stories into the air. She stood gaping for a long second, then started to sprint up the driveway away from the building.  
  
"Damn! What the hell was he keeping in there... ?" Mackie rammed the gear-shift forward and almost stood on the throttle; the truck lurched forward and he swung it out toward the open lawns. Snow and gravel spurted as he battled for control, then the vehicle was speeding back up the drive. He slammed on the brakes when he reached the wreckage of the gates, then leaned anxiously out of the cab window to look back.  
  
Linna jogged up, still carrying her rifle at the ready, but the shooting had stopped; she saw several running figures disappearing into the gloom at the limit of the truck's headlights. When she reached the back of the vehicle she saw Sylia standing unsteadily in the open doorway, her hand white where she gripped a stanchion, terrible fear in her eyes.  
  
"Oh my God. Priss... Nene... " She sat down suddenly, face so bleak with despair that Linna could not bear to look at her.  
  
Gouts of flame lanced into the air, and they felt rather than heard the awesome bone-deep rumble of the second blast. Linna turned; the three figures by the truck watched with incredulity as the castle fell in on itself before bursting open to collapse like the petals of a dying flower. The concussion left their ears ringing and the aftershock and blast-wave tore at them like a tornado, but still they faced the ruin, hoping against hope...  
  
Then Mackie pointed and yelled, "There! Over there!" In the light of the fires he had spotted movement off to one side; Nene, battered but still on her feet, carrying the almost unconscious Priss, weaving her way drunkenly across the snow.  
  
"Nene! Priss! Thank God... " Linna ran forward to help, Mackie only a step behind.  
  
"Priss... shot," said Nene, her voice weak and slurred. "Help... "  
  
Linna took Priss' weight as gently as she could, unable to see the extent of her injuries, and laid her in the back of the truck. Nene, relieved of her burden, slumped to her knees.  
  
"Nene-chan!" Mackie was at her side in an instant. He wrestled briefly with her helmet, lifted it over her head and tossed it into the truck. Nene's face was chalk-white, her green eyes huge and rimmed with pain and fatigue, her hair hanging in lank strands round her sweat-streaked face. Fresh blood trickled from her nose and ears. She blinked, and muttered something too softly for him to hear.  
  
"Gods... Here, let me... " He threw an arm round her waist and helped her to get back on her feet, then took most of her weight as they staggered over to the truck where with Linna's assistance he managed to lift her aboard. Nene crawled over to the heavy overcoat and flopped down on it, managing only to punch the quick-release on the hardsuit before collapsing, totally spent.  
  
Linna then turned her attention back to Priss. Sylia had started to unwrap the crude bandage that Nene had tied around her arm, and as she pulled away the last of the padding, the wounds started to bleed again. When she attempted to staunch the flow, her hands shook too much to continue.  
  
"Damn... Linna!"  
  
"Here." She took Sylia's place and quickly surveyed the extent of the damage. "Mackie, have you got any sort of a medical kit in here? Anything at all? We've got to stop this bleeding... "  
  
He turned, and gasped when he saw the wash of crimson. "In the cab... " He leapt to the ground and returned moments later with the truck's first-aid kit. "Let's see... " He rifled through it quickly, finding several rolls of bandages and some antiseptic wipes. "Here... "  
  
Linna cleaned and dressed the wounds as best she could following Sylia's instructions, then remade the sling to better support the injured arm, which was clearly broken. Priss watched the operation through slitted eyes, her face drawn and reflecting her pain although she made no sound.  
  
"Can you manage now?" asked Mackie. "Someone must have noticed all this by now and reported it. I don't want to still be here when the Police arrive... "  
  
"Gods! Yes, get us out of here," replied Linna. "Sylia, can you dump the guns and stuff? If we're stopped, we don't want *them* in here."  
  
Sylia moved to do as Linna suggested, and then gave a feeble chuckle. "I don't think we need worry about these, Linna - Nene's hardsuit is rather... conspicuous, and we can't just dump that. Not to mention Priss' injuries."  
  
"Oh. Yes... "  
  
* * * * *  
  
* Chapter Eight *  
  
Flight  
  
Mackie leapt up into the cab and set the truck into motion. He was horribly aware that the vehicle's tracks were the most recent marks leading up to the estate and that their only hope lay in joining a main highway and disappearing into the anonymity of the early-morning traffic. He had also become abruptly aware of the time; the drive to the airport was a long one, and missing the aircraft would spell disaster for all of them. He switched on the truck radio, listening anxiously for news and traffic bulletins, and headed away from the blazing castle and the matching glare in the sky as fast as he dared.  
  
He passed through New Brandenburg at speed; there was no sign of alarm. The fact that no street lights were lit and all the buildings were in darkness made him chuckle aloud; it seemed his comment to Nene about the frequency of power-cuts was justified after all. He slowed just enough to take corners safely, and also when he reached the access to the autobahn; as he carefully joined the press of early morning traffic he saw the flashing beacons of the Police and Fire Services off in the distance. By this time the sky had regained its normal colour, though whether this was an effect of distance, or because the fire had run its course, he could not tell.  
  
In the back of the truck, the Knight Sabers sat in varying attitudes of ease. Sylia, still buoyed by the adrenaline rush following her dramatic rescue and now reassured by the acquisition of Von Mecklenburg's drug cache, was almost cheerful, and with Linna's help set about making Priss as comfortable as possible. She insisted on re-examining the bullet wounds; by the time she had finished, Priss was almost unconscious from pain, shock and blood loss. No-one saw the flash of worry on Sylia's face when Nene confirmed that the second bullet was still buried deep inside the singer's shoulder.  
  
Finally satisfied, at least for the moment, Sylia looked up. "I've been patching us all up for too long," she said. "I wonder if I should give up the shop and become a doctor instead... "  
  
"You'd never survive the hours," replied Linna with a faint weary smile. "Or the malpractice suits... "  
  
Next they moved over to Nene. Her colour had returned to normal and she was resting easily, half-concealed under the fur coat she had appropriated earlier, her discarded hardsuit beside her.  
  
Sylia chuckled, then. "Nene's ability to sleep never ceases to amaze me - "  
  
Nene opened a bleary eye. "I am *not* asleep," she retorted hoarsely. "There's too much noise in here for that!" She sat up, stretched cautiously, and looked Sylia up and down. "Are you all right, Sylia? You *look*... " She trailed off uncertainly.  
  
"I've been better," admitted Sylia. "But I'll be okay, thanks to the four of you." She knelt down by Nene and looked searchingly into her eyes. "I know what it cost you. The fire. Thank you."  
  
Linna, puzzled by the exchange, looked a question at Nene, who affected not to notice and said quickly, "I hate to change the subject, but is there any coffee left? I could kill for something to drink... "  
  
* * * * *  
  
The next seventy miles or so passed without incident as Mackie drove steadily up the autobahn towards Berlin and the airport. There was no sign of pursuit; it seemed that they had made a clean getaway.  
  
With fifty miles to go the weather turned again and snow again started to fall heavily. At first Mackie maintained his speed, but finally the traffic density and road conditions grew so bad that he had no choice but to slow down.  
  
A few miles further on the traffic ground to a complete halt, and Mackie slammed his hands on the wheel in disgust. By his reckoning they were at least an hour from the airport, and their chances of arriving in time were slipping away in the German winter.  
  
In the truck the others also realised the significance of the delay. Linna cautiously opened the rear doors and peered out into a vista of thick white flakes. "Oh no!" She turned to the others. "This looks bad. I'm going up front to see what Mackie thinks... Hey, give me Priss' headset. Mackie can use it - I don't know why we didn't think of this before!" She took the unit and jumped down to the roadway, then jogged up to the cab.  
  
Mackie started with surprise when she opened the door and pulled herself in. "Linna? What - "  
  
"Here, take this." She handed him the headset. "Put it on, and we can talk to you. How are we doing? Why have we stopped?"  
  
"I don't *know* why we've stopped," he replied grimly. "But I *do* know we're too bloody far away. We're not going to get to the airport in time if this lot doesn't start to shift soon."   
  
"Uh-huh. I'll go warn the others." She slid down from the cab, face troubled, and disappeared into the snow again.  
  
"Well?" Priss, awake again, tried to sit up straighter as Linna climbed back into the trailer.  
  
"Bad," she replied. "We're stuck in traffic, and Mackie's worried we'll miss the flight." She slammed her hand into the wall. "Damn! I can't believe after we've come this far... "  
  
At that moment the truck started to move again, jolting forward, swerving to the right and then straightening. They felt it mount a low kerb, and the terrain beneath the wheels changed to something that was clearly neither tarmac nor concrete.  
  
Priss braced herself as best she could, wincing and breathing in shallow hissing gasps at the jostling of her injuries; the others sat down on Nene's heavy coat.  
  
"What on earth is he up to?" asked Nene of no-one in particular. The truck gave a sudden sideways lurch, and she let out a small squeak of dismay. "I hope he doesn't tip us over!"  
  
"I think our Mackie's starting to drive like... well, like me," said Priss, grinning despite her pain. "I'd say he's driving up the verge - it must be frozen solid in this weather. As long as there are no cops stuck in the traffic... "  
  
Priss was correct. Despairing of the jam clearing, Mackie had swung the truck up onto the grassed verge to continue the journey. Horns blared in outrage as he passed, but he ignored them. Three miles or so further on he found the cause of the blockage; a semi-trailer had jack-knifed and toppled over, blocking two of the highway's three lanes, and the traffic had been reduced to filtering past at a snail's pace along the one open lane. The Police had not yet arrived, and he was able to speed past the accident virtually unobstructed, dropping quickly back onto the road on the other side. With almost no traffic in front of him, he was then able to resume the dash to the airport, and also report quickly to Linna on the situation.  
  
Linna relayed his comments to the others. "It won't be long now, one way or the other," she finished. "Nene, you'd better suit up again - we'll have to run a reverse of what we did to get off the airfield, to get back on."  
  
"Yeahhh," said Nene slowly, reluctance in her face. "But there are more of us this time. Mackie and Sylia won't have time to go through the airport red tape... "  
  
"No problem. There's no time to take out the perimeter security like you did at the castle, so you'll flip Mackie and me over the fence like we did there, then you can jump Sylia and Priss over separately. How's your power-pack holding out?"  
  
"Not good. It hasn't had nearly enough time to recharge - the fight and the heat took a lot out of it. I'll have to block the airport radar again - and if my ECM fails, we'll be lit up like a Christmas tree on some ground controller's screen."  
  
"That can't be helped," said Sylia. Her voice was weak, and they turned to look at her. She was leaning against the wall, exhaustion written in every line of her body, huge dark smudges under her eyes. The adrenaline lift from her rescue had faded, and she had obviously almost reached the end of her endurance.  
  
Priss grinned mirthlessly, eyes hard. "We just go for it," she replied. "And no-one better get in our way... "  
  
By the time the lorry arrived at the airport limits dawn was just beginning to break - a fact of technical interest only, as the solid cloudbase obscured any sign of the sky. Linna kept up a steady three-way conversation with Mackie, and with Josephson in the aircraft. She became alarmed when the latter reported that he had reached the point of 'go/no go'; the Control Tower had now advised him that if he did not move off his ramp at once, he would lose his departure slot.  
  
"Mackie! How long? Josephson says he's got to move... "  
  
"Five minutes max!" he yelled back.  
  
"Mackie says five minutes, Captain. Okay?"  
  
She cocked her head to one side, listening. "Yes, we'll do it just like we did before - we'll come over the fence and board while you're holding at the end of the taxiway... Yes, just keep the Tower happy. I'll keep this channel open." She turned to the anxiously watching faces. "He's moving up the taxiway as slowly as he can without pissing off the Control Tower too much. C'mon, we haven't got much time. He's taking a big chance for us with this messing about... "  
  
As she spoke the truck halted. She opened the door just as Mackie rounded the end of the trailer.  
  
"This way!" he yelled. "Follow me, I know where we are." He helped Sylia down, and they began to run slowly into the falling snow, followed closely by Linna. Nene, once again fully suited, carefully picked up Priss and started to follow.  
  
"Just you and me again, huh?" Priss grimaced in distress as her shoulder banged against the hardsuit, but her tone was warm. "Thanks, Nene."  
  
They reached the boundary fence, where the others were standing waiting. Nene eased Priss down and went up to Linna.  
  
"You first?"  
  
Linna nodded. "Yeah. Then Mackie, then lift Sylia and Priss over." A sudden howl of engines split the air. "Hurry! We're out of time - he's almost reached the end of the taxiway, and he can't sit there for long... "  
  
"Right." Nene promptly flipped her into the air; she soared elegantly over the barbed wire and landed neatly on the far side. Mackie followed, sprawling onto hands and knees; once he was safely down, Linna sprinted off into the snow.  
  
"Use the rear ramp," she yelled as she disappeared from view. "He says he can't open the side door from the cockpit."  
  
Nene wrapped an arm round Sylia's waist. "Hang on," she said. "We're almost there... " Sylia did not reply, but clung grimly to Nene as they leapt the fence. Mackie took Nene's place at her side, pulled his sister's arm over his shoulders and started to run into the snow. Sylia nearly fell but finally managed to keep her feet, weaving slightly and sagging in his grasp.  
  
Nene did not wait to see them go, but leapt back for Priss. Again she took her carefully in her arms and, eking out the remaining power in her suit jets, jumped softly over the fence to a feather-light landing. The roar of aircraft engines sounded close at hand, and a dark shape loomed out of the gloom, moving slowly to the head of the runway.  
  
"Run for it!" she screamed. "Power-pack's nearly shot... " She grabbed Priss by the hand and set off, towing the singer in her wake. Then she felt resistance; turning her head, she saw Priss trying to break loose from her grip.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"My pack!" shouted Priss, desperation in her face. "Who's got my pack?"  
  
"WHAT?" Nene loosed her grip and pushed Priss towards the aircraft. "Go! I'll get it."  
  
"Nene!" Sylia, faintly, over the suit voicelink. "Leave it, there's no time."  
  
"That pack may be your *life*," screamed Nene frantically. "I won't leave it behind!"  
  
"Forget it! We've got to go, now... Nene!"  
  
Nene reached the fence, cleared it in one bound, skidded into the side of the truck. She took three paces round to the doors, looked in. Where...? "Ah!" The pack was lying half-concealed under the fur coat where she suddenly remembered having carelessly thrust it to use as a pillow. She snatched it up, jamming one arm through the straps, and spun back to the fence.  
  
"NENE!" Sylia's shrill cry contained an edge of real fear. "Please... "  
  
"I've got it." She heard the aircraft's engines cycle up towards full thrust, saw it dimly through the falling snow as it started to move ponderously down the runway. Fear lent her leaden muscles strength and she leapt over the fence for a last dogged run, aiming herself blindly at where she calculated the 'plane's open ramp ought to be. The wash from the engines almost knocked her down as she crossed behind the wing but she staggered on, legs pumping, muscles and servos straining, breath burning raw in her throat.  
  
The aircraft gathered speed, and to her horror she saw it pass in front of her, racing away down the runway. With a last despairing prayer she kicked in her suit jets and jumped, arcing through the air, relying on the trajectory plotted from her sensors. She began to curve downwards, falling now, jets sputtering, their power finally exhausted - and her hand brushed the still-open ramp. Fingers clamped reflexively on a strut; her arm was almost torn from its socket as her body made the abrupt change of direction. She clung to the strut as she was slammed down onto the ramp, scrabbled with her other hand to clutch at a cargo cleat. She felt the aircraft's tail sink as the nose lifted, then the sudden cessation of vibration as the wheels left the runway. A different throbbing heralded the slow closing of the ramp, and in moments she was safe within the hold of the aircraft as it soared into the dawning sky.  
  
"Nene"!" Mackie and Linna were there in moments. Together they half-carried, half dragged her to the front of the hold and started to strip off her hardsuit.  
  
The first person she saw was Sylia, white-faced and looking more scared than Nene could ever recall seeing her.  
  
"Nene... " Sylia took the younger girl's hand and squeezed it; Nene could feel her trembling.  
  
"I'm okay, Sylia. Really." She tried to sit up, winced as her bruises made themselves evident. "Oww... a sauna, a sauna! Please! I'll even let Mackie massage me... "  
  
Sylia choked back a giggle - or a sob; Nene was uncertain which - and replied unsteadily, "Are you sure you didn't hit your head...?"  
  
Mackie winked at her and said plaintively, "It's about time I had some fun!"  
  
Linna tried to hold back a chuckle; even Priss, again almost unconscious, managed a faint grin. Nene looked at the faces peering down at her and giggled; in seconds they were all laughing in relief as the aircraft soared towards the rising sun.  
  
* * * * *  
  
* Chapter Nine *  
  
Aftershocks  
  
"Hello, Mackie."  
  
"Linna? Hi! Come on up... " Mackie pushed the button to unlock the elevator; moments later he heard the car start up the shaft.  
  
Linna walked into the room, looking tired and harassed. Mackie took one look at her and pushed the papers on which he had been working to one side. "Coffee?"  
  
Please... " Linna pulled a chair back from the table and sat down, running one hand through her already tousled hair and taking the proffered mug in the other. "Thanks. So, what are you up to?"  
  
Mackie scowled. "Paperwork! I don't think I really appreciated the amount of work that Sylia put into running the shop."  
  
"I thought that Yamada-san was running the shop while Sylia was away?"  
  
"She was," agreed Mackie. "But she tripped over a kerb and broke her leg last week. So now I'm stuck with the job!"  
  
Linna smiled and took a sip of her coffee, then grimaced. "Ugh! Mackie, how long has this pot been brewing?"  
  
"Umm... I'm not sure, actually," he admitted. "I've gotten so used over the years to that stuff Sylia drinks that I don't notice the taste any more."  
  
"Huh." Linna shuddered put the mug back on the table. "So, how *is* Sylia?"  
  
"Good," he replied. "Very good, actually. Doctor Ishihara says she can come home tomorrow." He frowned. "I guess it's just as well that Von Mecklenburg's grasp of bio-chemistry was as shaky as his grasp of boomers... She's going to be OK."  
  
"Thank goodness for that. I haven't been able to get up there as often as I'd like, and they've got some funny rules and regulations about visitors and visiting hours."  
  
Mackie grinned. "That's what you get when you book into a substance abuse clinic." The grin became a full-blooded laugh. "I don't think Sis was too happy with me when she realised that she's in a clinic designed for drying out alcoholics and drug addicts. She nearly hit me when I said it would give her some 'street cred' with her customers!"  
  
Linna joined in his laughter. "I can imagine... "  
  
Mackie took another swig from his mug and then frowned at it. "Y'know, you're right about this stuff... " He put the mug down. "How's Priss doing?"  
  
"OK," said Linna. "She'll be in the hospital for another five or six days, though." She scowled. "Of course if she hadn't tried to discharge herself at the end of the first week and then hit that intern when he tried to stop her, she wouldn't have torn up all the work they did when she was admitted. I told her I'd deck her myself if she pulls another stunt like that."  
  
"Good for you." He grinned. "I think I got the easy part - at least Sis *can* be reasonable. I'll bet Priss makes a lousy patient!"  
  
"Oh, she's not so much trouble now. The doctor was so annoyed that he's added a tranquilliser to her meds to keep her quiet, so she's not behaving too badly... The only trouble is that her blood pressure goes up every time Leon McNicol visits her - and he's got into the habit of dropping in nearly every day!"  
  
"She'll get over it." He picked up his pen and drew an absent-minded doodle on his notepad. "Linna, have you seen Nene lately?"  
  
"Not since she came with me to the hospital to see Priss that first time," she replied. "She didn't stay long - I think she was more upset by Priss' condition than she let on. Why do you ask? I thought she was spending most of her time with Sylia - I somehow got the impression that the clinic considered her an 'approved' visitor because she's a cop."  
  
"That's what I thought, too," said Mackie. But Sis hasn't seen her since the second day... " He frowned. "I've been so damned busy with the shop, and visiting Sis, that I didn't realise at first - but I haven't seen or spoken to Nene for over a week now, since she dumped the job on me of monitoring the Net."  
  
"Now that you mention it, neither have I," said Linna slowly. "But it's been frantic at work, and I've been running back and forward to the hospital to keep Priss company... " She stopped, puzzled. "So, you and Sylia thought she was spending her time with Priss, and Priss and I thought she was with Sylia. Where in blazes *is* she?"  
  
"I don't know," replied Mackie. "I've tried 'phoning, but all I get is her answer-phone. That's not unusual when she's working a night shift, so I didn't give it a second thought. Until now... " He got to his feet. "I think I'll take a spin out to her place, make sure she's all right."  
  
"Good idea. Say 'hi' from me, OK?" Linna also stood. "Oh well, off to the hospital, I suppose. I *hate* hospitals. I'll be glad when Priss gets out and we can visit her at home... Goodnight, Mackie."  
  
"G'night, Linna. I'll let you know about Nene once I've talked to her... "  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Oh God... " Nene sat bolt upright in her bed, cold sweat running down her body, breath coming in shuddering gasps; tears rolled down her face. "Not again. I can't take this any more... "  
  
The days were bad enough, but the nights... Every one of the eighteen nights since the team's return from Germany had been the same. Every time she closed her eyes she was assailed by nightmares of blood and fire, in which the shadowy faces of the men she had killed stared dimly out at her. She now realised with mounting self-loathing that she had never truly realised the power contained in (restrained by?) the hardsuits. The genius of Sylia's father had enabled the Knight Sabers to go into battle against Genom's killer-boomers with a better-than-even chance of surviving the encounter; but never before had Nene turned her hardsuit's power against ordinary human beings. The results of doing so had both appalled and terrified her.  
  
Afraid to sleep, unable to eat, Nene knew that her life was suddenly, shockingly falling apart; and with a sudden clarity of vision she realised that she could see only one solution...  
  
* * * * *  
  
Priss was drifting...  
  
Mind lazy and body lethargic from the tide of painkillers, tranquillisers and metabolic boosters flooding her veins, she lay in the hospital bed idly watching the birds as they passed by her window in their endless search for thermals over the brilliant, sun-lit skyscrapers of Mega-Tokyo.  
  
Periodic visits from Linna, and now also from Sylia, newly released from the clinic in which she had been treated for her unwilling addiction, and from Leon McNicol, had left her with an intellectual knowledge of how close she had come to dying from the two bullet wounds and the resultant trauma, blood loss and infection. She also recognised the irony in her situation; denied the cushioning medical systems built into her hardsuit, she had come nearer to death at the hands of a gang of para-military thugs than she ever had from Genom's war-toys. The psychological effect was more insidious, and she had become vaguely horrified when she realised herself thankful that someone else was currently entirely responsible for her well-being - however temporarily.  
  
Not that she would ever admit that to *anyone*. Not even to Sylia.  
  
When the first tentative knock sounded on her door she sighed heavily and closed her eyes, hoping that the unwelcome visitor would take the hint. The door opened and then quickly closed again, and she thought for a fleeting moment that her ploy had been successful until the sound of soft footsteps crossing towards the bed quickly disillusioned her. She kept still, hoping that the intruder would respect her peace.  
  
"I'm sorry, onee-san."  
  
The formal expression, and the utter dejection in the speaker's voice, jerked her eyes open again. Nene was standing by the bed, head bowed and hands clasped in front of her so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her face was red and blotchy from crying; her eyes brimmed with still-unshed tears.  
  
"Nene? What... ?" She trailed off, uncertain and feeling out of her depth. She suddenly wished Sylia was there; the Knight Sabers' leader had an adroit way of coping with Nene's occasional emotional outbursts that would have been very welcome.  
  
"I'm sorry," repeated Nene between sniffles. "You didn't want Sylia to take me on from the first, and you were right. I can see that now." She gulped back another fit of sobs, dabbed at her eyes with a sodden tissue. "My carelessness, my *stupidity*, nearly got both of you killed. You always said I'm not good enough - "  
  
"That's not true!" Priss grabbed the clenched hands, tried to impart the urgency of her reassurance. "If I ever really thought that, I certainly don't now - "  
  
"I'm no good to the Knight Sabers." She wrenched free of Priss' suddenly-desperate grip. "Goodbye, onee-san." She retreated to the door, opened it with a defiant, despairing jerk. "I'm sorry... "  
  
"Nene!" Priss fought to sit up, almost pulling the drip out of her arm in her haste. "Don't - "  
  
Sullen grey thunderheads rolled across the face of the sun as the door snapped shut with grim finality. Priss struggled to sit up, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead as she forced her abused body to action. She managed to get a hand on the 'phone by the bed, hooked it round to face her and dialled one of the few numbers she bothered to remember.  
  
"Sylia? Listen - we've got a problem... "  
  
* * * * *  
  
Tokyo Central Station was awash with travellers. As she always did on those rare occasions when she had to venture into the city's largest transport hub during rush hour, Sylia alternately marvelled at and cursed the throngs packing the concourse and standing in lines in front of the ticket windows. After receiving Priss' frantic telephone call, a clandestine check on Nene's credit cards had revealed the purchase of a ticket to Osaka, and another on the rail company's bookings had confirmed the train on which she would be travelling. Sylia had immediately booked the last two available tickets in a four-seat compartment in the train's Green Car and summoned a taxi; but now as she fought her way through the throng she realised with mounting desperation that the searches and travelling to the station had taken too much time. Any chance she had of intercepting Nene before the train left grew slimmer by the minute.  
  
Sylia was panting from the exertion by the time she reached the platform allocated to the 18.30 shinkansen service to Osaka. The train was already boarding; there was no sign of Nene. She slammed a fist into her other hand in frustration; she had hoped to avoid the round-trip to Osaka by catching Nene before she boarded the train, which was due to depart in only a couple of minutes. She boarded the last car only seconds before the doors closed and the locks engaged; relieved, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes while she waited for her breathing and heartbeat to return to their normal levels.  
  
After five minutes or so she felt sufficiently settled to begin her search for Nene, hoping that the rail ticket had not been a ruse on the redhead's part. Although she could think of no immediate reason for Nene to have mounted such a deception, given the total secrecy with which she had apparently laid her plans, Sylia did not rule out the possibility. Nene had surprised the Knight Sabers before and the potential certainly existed for her to do so again.  
  
Sylia made a slow progression along the train, checking faces as she went. She had passed through more than half the train's length before she finally spotted her quarry, sandwiched miserably between a pair of inebriated tourists both of whom appeared to be propositioning her.  
  
"Nene!" Sylia spoke crisply and without threat, crooking a finger at her friend. Years of obedience asserted itself and Nene found herself on her feet and following the older woman into the Green Car compartment almost before she realised that she had done so. There was only one other occupant; Sylia glared at him and the man must have seen something in her face because he gulped audibly, clambered to his feet and left, muttering something about needing a drink.  
  
Nene slumped bonelessly into one seat; Sylia chose the one opposite her and sank gracefully into the cushioning. Nene's face was white, her lips clenched shut, but a spark of defiance lingered in the desolate look that she cast at Sylia.  
  
The tableau held for several minutes; Nene huddled into her seat and looking anywhere but at Sylia, Sylia sitting patiently with her gaze fixed on the younger girl. Nene was the first to break the silence; tears trickled down her face as she whispered, "I'm sorry... " so softly that Sylia had to strain to hear her.  
  
Sylia continued to wait, her patient gaze calm and sympathetic. Finally Nene shifted restlessly in her seat and repeated, "I'm sorry... " She seemed to realise that Sylia expected more and continued, "I can't go on. I can't do it any more." Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and she dabbed ineffectually at them with an already sodden tissue.  
  
"Nene, Nene... " Sylia tried to keep her voice soft and soothing. She felt at something of a disadvantage; the emotional storms that sometimes troubled her friends always left her feeling somehow inadequate. While she would never claim to be devoid of emotion she certainly avoided parading her feelings in public; overt displays by others made her uneasy. She almost wished that she had either Priss or Linna with her.  
  
Nene simply looked at her - an improvement on staring blankly out of the window, Sylia decided - but said nothing further. Sylia sighed inwardly and marshalled her thoughts.  
  
"I understand what you're going through - "  
  
"DO YOU?" Nene jerked forward in her seat, almost shouting, her face aflame with anger. "I don't *think* so, Sylia. I screwed up so badly that you and Priss nearly died because of me." She seemed on the verge of saying more, then clamped her lips shut and settled unhappily back into her seat.  
  
"Oh, Nene... Everyone makes mistakes in combat - it's hardly a precise art, after all. The real trick is to learn from your errors so you don't repeat them - " She broke off and glanced sharply at the other girl, recalling something that Priss had told her. "But that's not the only reason - the *real* reason, is it?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Nene tried to evade Sylia's steady gaze but found that she was unable to do so.  
  
"Priss told me what happened in Von Mecklenburg's castle," continued Sylia gently. "Nene, I - "  
  
"Sylia, I killed them! I almost ripped them apart! I was no better than... than a fucking *boomer*. The only one who escaped *called* me a boomer before he ran away..." Her voice rose to a tortured scream; then she burst into a fit of wracking sobs that shook her entire body.  
  
The wholly uncharacteristic obscenity took Sylia by surprise and she cursed silently as she realised just how badly she had misjudged the depth of Nene's despair. "I *do* understand, at least a little, Nene. And I also understand that you feel you have to get away." She paused, gauging Nene's reaction. "Maybe you're right... "  
  
"I am, Sylia. I just can't bring myself to put my hardsuit back on. Even the thought of it terrifies me." She gave a shaky laugh, though her eyes were bleak. "Hell, *everything* terrifies me at the moment - guns, boomers, gaijin...even you, right now... " Her voice trailed away to a bare whisper at the last.  
  
Sylia sighed sadly. "If that's the way you feel, then... " She hesitated, running options through her mind, and reached a rapid decision. "I don't want to lose you, Nene, either as a friend or as a Knight Saber. For now you're in no condition to carry on as part of the team, and I won't try to force you come back to MegaTokyo with me - you'd only end up resenting me for it. I get enough trouble from Priss, and I don't need to go looking for any more!" She glanced casually at Nene as she spoke and was pleased to see a tremulous but genuine grin flicker across her face.  
  
"I think we'll just call this an extended holiday, for the moment," she went on. "Go to Osaka, if that's what you've decided. Make it a real holiday, a complete break. You deserve a vacation - well, we all do, come to that... "  
  
"Sylia... " Nene reached out a hand and touched the older woman on the arm, a real smile now on her face. "Thank you. And I'm sorry for what I said earlier - you *do* understand, don't you?"  
  
Sylia smiled back at her. "Now that that's settled, have you considered the other practicalities? I can deal with Priss, and Linna - I'll try to make sure that they don't come tearing after you, at least - " She stopped short, her face troubled. "And Mackie, I suppose... "  
  
Nene winced a little at that. "I've behaving like a complete coward, aren't I? I hadn't thought about Mackie at all."  
  
"What's done is done, Nene. I'll talk to him. I'm sure he won't be happy about it, but I dare say I can convince him that I know best... " She cocked her head to one side. "What about your job? I doubt that the AD Police will accept you just disappearing like this... "  
  
"I managed to get that bit right, at least," replied Nene. "I wrote them a letter and posted it before I caught the train, handing in my resignation."  
  
Sylia scowled at her. "That was a little... precipitate, don't you think? I might begin to suspect that you don't intend to come back at all... " She suddenly stared hard at the younger girl, various suspicions coalescing in her mind. "You *didn't* intend to come back, do you? You were just going to disappear on us... "  
  
"I thought so, at first," confessed Nene, ashen-faced. "But... I'm glad you came and found me... " She gave a shaky laugh. "I should have just asked the ADP for a leave of absence, shouldn't I?"  
  
Sylia sighed again. "I'll see what I can do. I doubt that Inspector McNicol will want to lose you completely unless he has no choice, and who knows - you might even be glad of a paying job to come back to... "  
  
She looked at Nene again. "So, what now?" she continued, leaning back and wishing that they were not travelling in a non-smoking compartment. "Do you want to talk, or would you rather I left you alone? It's what, about another hour and a half to Osaka? I seem to be along for the ride anyway, whichever you prefer... "  
  
Nene giggled; it was only a shadow of her normal laugh, but Sylia's heart lifted to hear it. "Dinner would be nice, actually. I can't remember the last time I ate properly... "  
  
Sylia raised an eyebrow. "Well, I certainly didn't expect *that*," she said. "Although maybe I should have done... " She fought for a moment to maintain her severe expression, then gave up and laughed. "You know, Nene, I'm really going to miss having you around. Don't stay away too long, OK?"  
  
"OK." Nene got to her feet. Her face was still pale but her eyes, though puffy, contained a new sparkle that Sylia was relieved to see. "Come on. The dining car's this way, I think. My treat... "  
  
The train thundered on into the night; overhead the clouds were thinning and a silent moon gleamed down on the dark and peaceful countryside.  
  
- Fin -  
  
* * * * *  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
First and foremost, my thanks to my pre-readers, Bert 'Skyknight' Van Vliet and Jeanne Hedge. Jeanne's detailed input in particular was invaluable and the story you have just read (or are hopefully just about to read, if you are one of those people who goes to the end of a book first) has been immeasurably improved by her commentary. Although she gracefully declined a 'co-plotter' credit a great deal towards the end grew out of what she said to me. Take a (necessarily virtual, in view of our geographical separation) 'chug' from the ceremonial tea mug, Jeanne!  
  
The original concept behind the story as I first started writing it over five (!) years ago was to see how the Knight Sabers would cope without Sylia to run the show. Her departure from MegaTokyo at the end of BGCrash 3 - 'Meltdown' was providential; and when I added the possible local reaction to the destruction of Berlin's Genom Tower the stage was set.  
  
My apologies to Linna's fans if you feel that everyone's favourite dancer-cum-aerobicist-cum-stockbroker has been 'slighted' in 'Aftershock'. It seemed unreasonable to take the entire team and 'test them to destruction' in the course of a single story, so someone had to bear the burden of emerging from the action unscathed! I hope however that I've achieved my objective of conveying Linna's skills in the roles of planner and organiser reasonably effectively. Linna is the *other* cool head on the team and hopefully that has come through. And who knows - maybe Linna will have her turn another time... ^_-  
  
Finally, to those who may say that there's too much humour in 'Aftershock', my only answer is "tough". Humour has always played a part in BGC; and while MegaTokyo is technically a dystopia I find it far too depressing to write (or read) a story of unrelieved darkness.  
  
As ever C&C will be read with interest (but flames to alt.dev.null please). Write to me at the e-mail address below or post to r.a.a.fandom, which I believe is the acccepted public forum for such matters. I shall make a point of 'looking in' over there for a few days after the appearance of 'Aftershock' on r.a.a.creative.  
  
And yes, there is a sequel currently 'in the works'. My intention is that this will not be as long in the completion... ^_-  
  
Martin D. Pay  
Chelmsford, UK  
May 2002  
martin.pay@excalibur.ukf.net 


End file.
